And Now, the Amazing Electronic Brain
by Twyla Mercedes
Summary: Computer consultant R. Weaver meets librarian Belle French in the offices of a multi-media company. He's there to install electronic brains throughout the building & all are concerned that their jobs are in peril. Yet Miss French can't help but be attracted to the scattered charms of Mr. Weaver despite her on-going not-going-anywhere romance with company Wunderkind, Gary Gaston.
1. Chapter 1

**And Now, The Amazing Electronic Brain**

 **A.N. Of all of Rumple's persona, Weaver seemed to fit my IT guy character in this story (he's not the natty dresser that is Mr. Gold, he's got more self-confidence than the humble spinner, and he's not as devious and manipulative as our delicious Dark One).**

 **This is a movie remix of Desk Set, an old Hepburn/Tracey vehicle with Gig Young as the third part of the romantic triangle. (Guess who gets the girl). This is a sweet story of True Love triumphing over all.**

 **Chapter One**

 **Someone New in the Building**

Most international media companies had long since moved to New York . . . or Los Angeles . . . or even Atlanta, but ATNN news had maintained its integrity and remained in its city of origin - Asheville, North Carolina. They, of course, had branch offices in the big cities, but George Spencer, President and CEO, liked life in the clear mountain air and he had refused to move.

And, after all, it was 1964. People didn't have to meet face-to-face to do business. They could communicate perfectly well with telephones, and faxes, and even via the airwaves of television. George could continue to sit atop the Mills-Spencer Building overseeing his empire, television, radio, newspapers, and magazines.

He had embraced many changes, recognizing that if his company was to survive into the next century, they would _have_ to change. He also knew that the people who worked for him weren't quite as keen on change as he was. They viewed change suspiciously, always ready to ask that all important question, "How does this affect me?"

Of course, this morning it didn't matter, none of this mattered. This morning, George Spencer wasn't in his office. This morning was his tee time.

But, change had arrived and was running amok, unsupervised, through his empire.

 **An Agent of Change**

He was dressed in jeans, a clean white shirt, and a heavy black cloth jacket. He looked out of place amidst all the suits and the polished shoes of the people around him, but exuding confidence, he was able to pass through the throng of people in the lobby, making his way to the gleaming steel elevators. No one challenged him, and he rode in the whooshing silence of the brightly-lit carpeted enclosure, rising up, up to the top floor.

He stepped into the posh penthouse office, windows all around providing a sumptuous view of the mountains and the city. A bright neon green carpet covered the floor. The furniture was clear plexiglass with brass fixtures. The sofas and chairs were constructed of foam blocks and had been upholstered in eye-scalding orange and pink swirling paisleys. There was a plethora of potted plants hanging in macraméd glory scattered throughout and an untitled, demure Jackson Pollock abstract hanging on the wall. The place had been decorated to provide a retro-modern flavor, but instead rendered a cluttered, confusing atmosphere.

A pretty secretary, with lush red hair, pale skin, a casually unbuttoned blouse and a butt-caressing skirt, sat behind her clear acrylic desk and greeted him.

"Hello," she'd said pleasantly. There were three aquariums in the office and little goldfish swimming in a bowl on the woman's desk. He observed all this and shook his head.

"I'm here to see George Spencer," he told her. "I'm R. Weaver. We have an appointment."

"Oh, of course," the young woman said. "Yes, Mr. Weaver. Right. He's expecting you."

The young woman seemed a little flakey and Weaver had to wonder if she'd been hired for skills other than her secretarial abilities.

"Would you tell him that I'm here?" he asked.

She smiled at him – yes, she was quite a little beauty – but, while he could appreciate this, he had no interest in her. He'd already spent far too much time with one high-maintenance red-head – he didn't need another cluttering up his life. For that matter, he didn't need to have any woman, blonde, brunette or red-head, in his life right now.

"Well, Mr. Weaver. There's a teensy little problem," she began deferentially.

"Which is . . .?"

"Well, Mr. Spencer is very anxious to see you. He's cleared the entire morning for you, but . . . ."

"I don't understand. What's the problem?

"Well, your appointment isn't until tomorrow. You're a day early," she explained uncomfortably.

"Oh," he said surprised. "Isn't this Monday?"

"No, sir. This is Tuesday. And your appointment is for Wednesday."

 _Well shit._ "Well, why don't you just go ahead and ring him anyway and let him know that I'm here."

The secretary seemed embarrassed. "Well, Mr. Weaver, Mr. Spencer isn't in yet." She went on to explain, "He plays golf every Tuesday morning."

He shrugged it off. Spencer's part in all this was actually rather inconsequential.

"Well, never mind. Just tell me where your . . . uh . . . research department is," he suggested. "Since I'm here, I might as well go and have a look at that."

The young woman wasn't sure. "Uhhh . . . Research? Like in Research and Reference! Oh, that would be on the third floor."

"And who's in charge there? Who do I ask for?" he asked.

"Well, that would be Ms. French." The young woman regarded him closely as he idly watched some of the fish. "Would you like me to write that down for you, sir?"

He shook his head pulling out of his momentary reverie. Instead, he reached in his jacket pocket and produced a small wire-bound notebook. He wrote in it. "No, no thank you."

He left the penthouse office. Ariel, Spencer's brighter than the average secretary reached for the phone, but before she could answer it, it rang and she took the call.

 **The Reference Department**

At that moment, Belle French was not in her corner office on the third floor of the Mills-Spencer Building, one of the tallest in Asheville, an art deco triumph of architecture.

She was officially the head of research and reference for the company, a position that she had earned through hard work and perseverance. She had three equally brilliant and lovely women working with her, all of whom were currently sitting out in the large common area, all sitting behind stacks of books and magazines, and all sitting beside telephones. Their carpet was old and a worn drab brown. Their furniture was heavy wood, the edges of their desks smoothed by wear and age. Their chairs were mismatched. Beyond their desks were several rows of metal bookcases, crammed with books and boxes filled with periodicals. There was a hulking copier in one corner and a microfiche machine in another. The viewer was placed next to another metal bookcase which was filled floor to ceiling with neatly labeled boxes all filled with flat strips of film. There were no windows, the entire room was lit by humming fluorescent lights which cast a pale green pallor over everything. The room smelled like an exotic floral mold - a mix of the women's perfume and the layers of dust and aged paper.

Miss French was not there to hear the door to the Reference Department open. Her staff all looked up when the door opened.

The man entered, walked over to Miss French's office and peeked in. "Left-handed?" He considered. "Or ambidextrous. Humm. Probably not, so this office is all wrong for her. The light comes from the wrong direction." He looked up. "And there should be more light and this desk should be reversed," he muttered and pulled out his notebook to write something in it.

He heard the phone in the open work area outside of the office ring.

"Reference Department, Ms. Lucas." One of Belle's staff, a tall leggy brunette, answered it.

It was Ariel. "Rubes, there's a fine-looking older guy in jeans, a white shirt, black cloth jacket, coming your way, name of R. Weaver. Not sure exactly who he is, but he has an all-morning appointment with Spencer on Wednesday."

"So," Ruby glanced over at the man, easily recognizing him from Ariel's description. "tell me more."

"Oh, he's there, already, huh?"

"That's right. What else can you tell me?" Ruby asked, aware that the man was easily able to overhear her end of the phone call.

"Not entirely sure. He's some sort of big-shot consultant."

Ruby watched the man as he took out a measuring tape. He began to take measurements and write them down in his little notebook.

Another phone in the reference department rang. Ruby interrupted Ariel. "I'll have to get back with you on that. It's my other phone."

"Sure, Rubes. I'll keep you in the loop as I find out stuff."

"Same here," and Ruby deftly hung up one phone and answered the other, "Reference Department, Ruby Lucas."

She abruptly focused on the new call. "I do appreciate you calling me back. This is the Society for the Preservation of Inuit Culture?"

There was a pause and she continued, "That's right. I'm with ATNN and I'm trying to find out the truth about the reported custom of rubbing noses." She began taking notes.

Another phone rang and this time, a gorgeous blonde answered, "Reference Department, Ms. Swan."

The man was now at Emma Swan's desk, looking over the stacks of papers and books on her desk. She watched him closely as he began to measure the height of her desk.

She listened for a moment. "Yes, I did find that information for you. There are a number of poisons which leave no trace, but I have to remind you of ATNN's policy of not mentioning these on air. . . yes . . . uh huh."

Another phone rang. A sultry brunette answered it. "Reference Department. Miss Mills . . . right, I had called earlier about that black velvet strapless you had in your window."

The man was now over at Regina Mills's desk and was measuring the height of the books that were on her desk.

Ruby was continuing with her call even while she watched the man. "Well, do they rub noses or not? And, if they do, does it have any specific meaning?"

Emma also continued on her call. And she was also watching the man. "Exactly, you don't want to end up in court because someone got the idea to use the poison you used in your show to off their spouse."

"Well, that's not much of a reduction," Regina was protesting.

"Ok, I'm still not understanding. Do they or do they not rub noses?"

"Exactly. Now I'm not telling you how to write your show, but you may want to use creative license and just make up a poison, perhaps from some plant that only grows in South America."

"But I saw one that might have been identical for ten dollars less in another store downtown."

The man was now measuring the height and width of the door.

"No, I'm not a writer . . . or an attorney . . . "

"So, you're suggesting I may want to call the Explorer's Club and they might have some specific information of what cultures might do this?"

"So, you'll call me back if the price goes down any. Thanks."

"I'm glad you understand. It's the network's policy. If you have any questions, you may want to talk with Legal. Thanks."

"I appreciate your suggestions. Thanks."

The three women hung up their phones simultaneously.

Immediately Miss Lucas's phone rang again. "Reference Department. Ruby Lucas."

"Ariel here."

Still watching the man who now measuring the bookcases, Ruby answered, "Yes, how may I help you?"

"Oh, he must still be there."

"That's correct," Ruby said brightly.

"Okay, I don't know exactly who he is. Maybe he's some kind of a nut. Or he's somebody really important. Or both."

"That sounds right," Ruby said cautiously.

"All right then. Do me a favor. If he leaves your office, can you try to find out where he's going? And let me know. I called the country club and now Spencer's coming in special and he'll want to see him _tout de suite_."

"I'll do my best on that one," Ruby promised.

The phone rang again, "Reference. Miss Mills." After a moment, "Yes, I'll need to switch you to our college football expert." She looked over, "Emma, line two."

Emma picked up the phone. "Which NCAA football team has the longest winning streak? That would be the University of Oklahoma Sooners. They won 47 consecutive games between 1953 and 1957 . . . you bet. . . You're quite welcome," and she hung up.

The man was standing in the middle of the room looking up at the ceiling. Ruby couldn't stand it any longer. She spoke up, "Good morning."

"Oh, yeah, morning," he answered vaguely glancing at the pretty brunette. He remained looking up at the ceiling, holding out the tape measure as if trying to figure out how he could measure the height of the room.

"I'm thirty-six, twenty-three, thirty-five," Ruby told him

"What?" the man's attention had been pulled away from the ceiling.

"My measurements," Ruby told him. "You seem to be using that tape measure with reckless abandon. I thought I'd help you out."

"Oh, yes. Amusing," the man said.

"Can I help you?" Ruby asked him.

"Oh no, no. Thanks," he said continuing to look up at the ceiling. "This is an interesting place. Do you mind if I look around?"

"Not at all," Ruby told him. "Make yourself right at home."

"Thanks," and he walked back, disappearing in their jungle of metal bookcases, stuffed with books and magazines.

Regina looked after him, "What's he doing?" she whispered her question.

Emma, also whispering, asked, "Who is he?"

"Ah, he's R. Weaver. King George is going to meet with him. If he leaves here, we're supposed to tail him," Ruby shared in a hushed voice.

"Where did you get that?" Regina asked

"Ariel," Ruby answered.

The phone rang, and Ruby answered. "Hello Reference Department, Miss Lucas." Phone in hand, she swung around to the bookcases.

"Mr. Weaver," she called out to him and held up the phone, "it's for you."

He looked a bit bewildered as he came out to get the phone. "How'd you know my name?" he asked reaching for the phone.

"Didn't you mention it?" Ruby asked guilelessly.

"No," the man told her as he took the phone.

"Oh," Ruby replied and returned her attention back to her desk.

"Mr. Weaver, this is Ariel. Mr. Spencer is coming in and we've juggled his appointments for the afternoon. He will be able to see you in just a little while."

"Well, thank you, Miss . . . uh . . . Miss Ariel. I guess you should just call me when he's ready. I'll be right here in the . . . um . . . Reference Department."

"Yes, sir. I'll be back with you as soon as Mr. Spencer is available."

Mr. Weaver handed the phone back to Ruby. He then handed her one end of the tape measure. "Would you hold this end for me, please?" he asked her. Ruby stood at her desk. "I mean, hold it up against the wall, Miss . . . uh . . ."

"Miss Lucas," she introduced herself. She pointed to the other two young women in the office. "And this is Miss Swan and Miss Mills."

Mr. Weaver gave them a preoccupied nod, "How do you do?" He then turned his attention back to Ruby. "Up against that wall, please."

Ruby dutifully walked to the wall he'd indicated and stood.

He waved her to the right, "All the way over, up against the corner there."

Ruby followed his directions and stood, putting the end of the tape up to the wall. "How's this?"

"That's it," he told her looking at the number on his end of the measure and writing it down in his little notebook.

"Whatcha measuring for?" Ruby asked him. "There's not room for another desk in here."

He ignored her. "I'd wanted to see Miss French. Is she around somewhere?"

"Miss French?"

"Miss French," he pulled out his little notebook, flipped through it and found what he was looking for. "She is the head of this department, isn't she?"

Ruby nodded. "She is. She just stepped out.

"Will she be long?" the man asked.

"She's probably on the sixth floor," Ruby told him. "Conferencing with her boss. What did you want to see her about? Maybe I could help you?"

"Oh, I don't think so," the man told her.

"Well, then why don't you step in her office," Miss Lucas opened the door to the corner office. "You might be more comfortable in there – lotsa things to measure."

The man considered this option and nodded, going into the tiny cubicle. The bottom of the walls was a solid gray but above this, there were glass windows going up to the ceiling. He began measuring things in this office.

"What do you suppose he's doing all that measuring for?" Emma asked.

"Do you think we're being redecorated?" Regina asked.

"Does he look like an interior decorator to you?" Emma asked, shaking her head.

"No," Ruby observed. "He looks like a man who's just suddenly switched to Johnny Walker."

It was that moment when Belle French breezed into the office. "Morning ladies. Wait until you see what I snagged at _Prêt Porter_. They'll be delivering it later this morning for me."

Ruby quickly held up a finger to her lips, "Shh! Quiet!" Ruby handed her a folder. "Now, take this."

"What? Why? What's going on?" Belle asked confused.

"Take it and look busy!" Ruby urged.

"Why? What is going on here?"

"You've been in conference all morning," Ruby told her.

"I have?"

"Listen," Ruby whispered to her. "There's a strange little imp in your office. He's been waiting for you."

"What have I done?" Belle asked.

"Well, for one thing, you're late. Ariel's called and she let me know that this guy's got a big meeting coming up with King George. She's pretty sure he's important."

Belle sighed, "Really Ruby. You break me up. Thanks for trying to save my job. But I was here until after eleven last night. On the way in I stopped to see the demonstration at the Science Museum on their new electronic brain and, then I just popped into _Prêt Porter_ for a total of five minutes." Belle might have said more, but the man had poked his head out of her office.

"Miss French?" he asked.

Belle stopped breathing for a moment. _She didn't know who this character was, but she could so appreciate the snug jeans, the un-ironed, but pristine white shirt, and the black jacket which gave him just a touch of motorcycle chic. His hair was trimmed with a touch of gray and his eyes, oh goodness they looked like melted chocolate with just a hint of butterscotch._

"Miss French." She heard him call her name again.

"That's me," she called back.

He stepped out of her office and stood. "I'm R. Weaver."

"Nice to meet you," she answered. He was blocking her way into her office.

"This is a nice, cheerful office," he observed looking around. "Do you like it here?" _He was finding it difficult to put his thoughts into any coherent order. This woman was not who he'd been expecting – he'd figured the head of the Reference Department would be a dumpy fifty-something-year-old with graying hair pulled into a tight bun, and a penchant for tweed – not this pert little sprite._

"Oh yes, I love it. If I didn't work here, I'd pay to get in," she said. "Are you from the Story Department, Mr. Weaver?"

"No, no, I'm not," he replied absently. "I . . . I was wondering if we could have a little talk in your office?"

"Certainly. Go right in," she told him.

He turned and stepped back into her office, "Thank you." _She smelled good too._

She trailed in after him, "Sit down," she directed him to one of the two metal chairs that were set in front of the desk. It was a supremely cramped office with overstuffed bookshelves and a rather large philodendron that had taken over much of the wall space. _Even though her guest was not a large man, his energy filled the room, taking up a large portion of the available oxygen._

She sat in the other chair, "Now, Mr. Weaver. What can I do for you?"

He looked at her a moment – _he had a number of inappropriate ideas, all unbeckoned, come into his head –_ and he gave her a slight smile. "Well, I didn't want to say anything in front of your staff because every time I mention what I do, people go into panic mode."

"My goodness," Belle replied, her blue eyes widening. "What is it you do?"

He hesitated, "Well, generally I'm what is known as a methods engineer."

Belle didn't respond immediately. "Isn't that a sort of efficiency expert?" she finally spoke.

"Well, that's what they used to call it. That term is a bit obsolete now."

"Oh, forgive me. I'm so sorry. I'm an old-fashioned girl. Now," the librarian turned her bright eyes on the man. "I thought I knew everyone in this building, but I haven't seen you around before."

"Well, I've only been around a few times, just wandering about."

"Oh, so you're more of a migratory engineer," she told him.

He gave her a thin smile. "Perhaps."

"Mr. Weaver," she leaned forward, "whatever would a methods engineer be doing in my little department?"

"Well, you'd be surprised how with just a little scientific application of principles you can improve the work to man-hour relationship."

"Fascinating," she told him, smiling.

 _Weaver found himself getting lost in those blue eyes._ All he could say was, "Uh huh."

"Forgive me," she popped up. "I try to water my baby first thing after I get in," and she picked up a watering pitcher to water her assertive philodendron – there were multiple long vines that had grown across her bookshelves, encircling the little office. He gaped at the enormity of the plant – in another couple of years, it would probably engulf the entire little office.

"Time is money, so they say," Belle continued as she stood on a stool to water the plant giving him a good view of her well-formed back-side and her legs. _Her skirt was too short, he thought. If she were his girlfriend, he wouldn't want her to show off so much leg._

She turned again and sat back down. "Green thumb," she explained. "My father taught high school biology and he had a thing about botany. When he retired, he opened a florist's shop." She might have said more, but her phone rang.

 **NEXT: We meet Gary Gaston, Belle's gentlemen friend.**

 **Belle gets an unexpected lunch invitation.**


	2. Assignations

**And Now the Amazing Electric Brain**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Assignations**

Belle French and the enigmatic Mr. Weaver were sitting in Miss French's little office. The phone was ringing.

"Excuse me," Belle said to Mr. Weaver before reaching over to answer her ringing phone. "Reference, Miss French."

She listened and glanced at Mr. Weaver. "Yes, Yes, he is." She then handed him the phone. "It's for you."

He nodded and took the phone. "Yes . . . yes . . . I'm here with her now. . . We're having a very nice little chat . . . Well . . . I haven't gotten into that yet . . . It's really too soon to evaluate . . . Well, yes, I believe we're thinking right along the same lines . . . yes . . . yes . . . right, George, I'll be up in just a few minutes."

Weaver handed Belle the phone. "I'll have to come back later . . . uh . . . Miss French," he told her, rising. She got up and followed him out.

"You'll get to Spencer's office much quicker if you use the back elevator. I'll show you where it is," she told him, guiding him down the hallway and around the corner to show him a service elevator in the back corner.

"Well, uh . . . uh, thanks . . . uh, thank you," he stammered out. _Yeah, that was so smooth. It had been a while since he'd met a woman who could make him stammer._

"I'll see you later," she gave him her smile one more time.

He had stepped into the elevator and turned around. He was still staring at her when the elevator door shut. "Oh, I hope so," he said to the back of the door.

Belle returned to her office and picked up the telephone. She checked for a number and dialed it. "Yeah, Detective Heller, please . . . Heller? . . . yeah, this is Belle. . . Lovely, and you? . . . Great. Listen, can you find out anything about a methods engineer, R. Weaver?" She glanced up and saw that the man had come back into her department. "Yes, I'm sorry, I'll have to call you back with that information. Thank you," and she hung up.

The man was looking around. "Where . . .?

"What's the matter?" Belle stepped out of her office.

"Uh . . . I . . . I had a tape measure. I must have left it in your office."

She returned to her office with the man on her heels. "What did it look like?"

"About three by three by one with a protruding tab," he replied.

"I mean, what color?" she asked.

"Oh, it's just a plain, ordinary . . . oh," he found it on her desk. "Here it is." He picked it up and put it into his pocket. "Sorry."

"Don't mention it," she told him.

"I . . . uh . . . I guess I'll be seeing you later," he managed to tell her.

"Fine," she answered and watched him make his way out.

Ruby, Emma, and Regina were all at her door.

"Who is he?"

"What's he doing up here?"

"What does he want?"

They all questioned her at the same time.

"He's an engineer," Belle answered.

"Like choo-choo or something else?" Emma asked.

"Something else. Like a method's engineer," Belle told them.

"That's like an efficiency expert, isn't it?" Ruby asked.

Belle nodded.

"Well, no wonder he was measuring the place," Regina told her.

"Measuring what?" Belle asked.

Emma told her, "The room, the desks, the bookcases."

Ruby added, "Yeah, he measured the whole layout."

"Did he now?" Belle considered this information.

Emma speculated, "Maybe we're getting our air-conditioning repaired, finally."

"That figures," Regina groused. "After all this is November."

"Yeah," Ruby agreed. "Last August they were too busy."

Outside of Miss French's office, a phone began to ring.

"Yeah, that's probably it," said Belle, lost in thought. "Or something like that, anyway." She shook herself, "Emma, I think that's your phone."

As Emma ducked out to get the phone, Belle addressed her remaining staff, "Hey, what do you say we give the company a little of our time? Got anything to run by me this morning?"

Ruby nodded, "There are a few things, Miss Belle."

"I'll come out," Belle promised, and she went over to Ruby's desk to look over the odd questions that her estimable staff hadn't been able to answer. "Oh," she remarked regarding the first item, "I'd say the N _ew York Times' Index_ for this one, check about five years ago, give or take two years." She shook her head and laughed at the next item. "Believe it or not, _The Farmer's Almanac_ for this one. If you can't find it there, perhaps a call to the U.S. Weather Information Service. I have their number on my Rolodex. But do check the _Farmer's Almanac_ first; it could save you some real time." She looked at the third item. "Oh my. This one's from the Bible. If I'm not mistaken the Book of Amos, Chapter . . . uh . . . One, I think."

"Thanks, Belles. I'll give this one to Regina and I'll take the others." Ruby dropped the one item onto Regina's desk and then scooted back into the stacks to research the other items.

The phone in her office rang, and Belle stepped in to promptly answer. "Reference, Miss French." She listened for a moment. "Oh that, yes. I can get that for you right away. No trouble at all. You ready?" she asked and then she began to recite:

 _By the shores of Gitchee Gumee,_

 _by the shining big sea waters,_

 _stood the wigwam of Nokomis,_

 _daughter of the moon, Nokomis._

She stopped, "What? His childhood? That comes later, a little farther down." And she continued with her recitation

 _And he sang the song of children,_

 _sang the song Nokomis taught him,_

' _Wah-wah taysee, little firefly,_

 _little flitting white-fire insect,_

 _little dancing white-fire creature,_

 _light me with your little candle..._

' _ere upon my bed I lay me,_

' _ere in sleep I close my eyelids.'_

She stopped, "Uh, all right then, you're quite welcome."

Emma tapped on the door of Belle's office and poked her head inside. "Here's that ten that I borrowed."

"Why thank you, Emma. You can keep it if you need it. I can wait 'til payday."

Emma hesitated, "I've sharpened all your pencils, and put in some new inter-office envelopes. The old ones were really raggedy looking."

Belle smiled at her eager, young assistant. "Thank you, Emma."

Emma continued, "I'll be glad to stay overtime any night if you have anything for me to do."

"Emma, should I be worried? It sounds like you're after my job."

Emma shook her head, "Oh, no. But, well, it was hard enough getting this job, and I want to keep it."

"Well, you're doing a great job. I'll be able to recommend you for a raise after the first of the year," Belle promised. "Now, I've got to make a couple more phone calls and find out what I can about our imp."

 **Spencer's Office**

"Well, the . . . uh . . . the physical setup will suffice - for now – barely - for now. It'll be very cramped, but we should be able to get it set up if we move out the copier and the microfiche. But down the line, they are really going to need much more space, especially if you end up expanding that department. Storage is inadequate – things are piled floor to ceiling or stacked up on their desks, and they are at each other's elbows. Ideally, they should have their own cubicles with good lighting and their own individual storage along with a greatly expanded general storage area. Quite of bit of the general information could be microfiched and that would save an enormous amount of space. Getting everything microfiched, however, could probably be a position in of itself; it's a job that doesn't require a lot of skill." He realized he had lost George somewhere around the mention of elbows.

"Well, it will work – that's good news," Spencer was pleased to hear this.

"And we need to be sure the air-conditioning and heating are both in tiptop shape. The electronic brain is very sensitive to temperature and has only a narrow range for optimal functioning."

"The heat is fine, but that entire floor had problems with the air-conditioning last year. I'll get someone right on it. Anything else that might stand in the way?"

"Well, the nature of this operation is such that the algorithm, well, it's going to be different than anything that's ever been designed before. It's really a fascinating problem."

"But it is doable?" Spencer pressed him.

"Yes, yes, I think so. We've made tremendous strides in this field and more are being made every day." Weaver paused a moment. "Visual read-offs are centralized, miniaturized, and set on schematic panels now. And then the . . . uh . . . the data can be codified and compiled . . . and it's all automatically computed. And there will be an automatic typewritten 'panalogue.' You see, George . . . "

Spencer's eyes had glazed over. "Now, now, now. You know, I don't understand a word you're saying, but it all sounds great and if you say it can be done, well, that's good enough for me."

Weaver nodded – _he was used to this response whenever he began using the jargon of his field._ "Now, I'd like to hang around your Reference Department for a couple of weeks, probably I'll need may be at least six weeks. I want to get a comprehensive picture of everything they do and how they work. It will probably mean some last-minute changes in my programming."

Spencer waved him off, "That's easily arranged. I'll put in a call to Gary Gaston. He's in charge of that department." He picked up the phone.

"It's not Miss French?" Weaver was confused.

"Well, she runs it, but he's her boss."

"Gary Gaston?" Weaver questioned. _He'd met the man and thought he was a cognitive light-weight, self-absorbed and, if given, half a chance, probably a bully. Gary had spent their brief time together bragging about his sexual conquests._

"Yes, I know. He doesn't impress as being particularly bright, but he writes the most brilliant reports, especially when he's dealing with financial matters," Spencer filled him in.

"Uhhh, does he even need to know what's going on? How close do you want to play this?"

"Hmmm, maybe he doesn't need to know," Spencer put down the phone. "Now, there is one thing I do want you to promise me. Don't let those girls in Reference know what we're doing."

"How's that?"

Spencer continued, "I don't want them to know anything about this . . . Big Thing that's coming up. It's vital that it be kept a secret." Spencer shook his head. "Of course, it's almost impossible to keep anything secret around here. But please, no matter what happens, don't answer any questions about what's coming."

"But . . . what are they going to think of me hanging around there?"

"I don't care what they think. They're all very smart, but this is one thing I don't want them to know, at least, not yet."

Weaver shrugged, "All right. All right. They won't hear about anything from me." He looked around Spencer's luxurious office. "You know something. Your office is bigger than the whole Reference Department."

"Well, it's supposed to be. If the office of the president isn't big enough to impress the sponsors, then there's nothing for the women down in Reference to research." Spencer leaned over. "You know what? I have another office just like this one on the second floor. Would you like it?"

"Me? Oh no, no thanks." Weaver waved him off.

Spencer leaned back in his leather chair, looking over the rumpled figure that sat before him. "You don't care whether you impress people or not, do you?"

Weaver gave him a wry smile. "Just wait until you get my bill. You'll be impressed."

 **Reference Department – The Next Day**

"It's on your desk, Belle," Ruby called out to her. Belle had stepped out of her office to run down to Payroll. She had wanted to check on Emma's status to be sure she was in line for that raise the young woman had worked for and certainly deserved. A delivery had come in for her while she'd been out of the office.

Ruby followed her into her office. Belle shut her door and opened up the box. She pulled out a beautiful golden dress trimmed in cream-colored lace.

"Nice," Ruby told her. "Is it for a special occasion?"

"I thought I'd wear it on Monday to work," she replied blandly, then, "Yes, of course, it's for a special occasion, well, I hope it's for a special occasion. I don't really know yet. It's for the big Christmas party that Gary is maybe, possibly going to ask me to," Belle told her best friend.

Ruby shook her head. "Belles, you know I love you like a sister. And I know, unsolicited advice is about as appreciated as a Friday night turd at a Saturday morning market, but darling, if and when Gary Gaston asks you to the dance, do yourself a favor and be busy. He always waits until the last minute because he knows you'll always be there."

"You mean, I'm too available?" Belle asked.

"Available? Oh, honey, you're like an old coat that's hanging in his closet. Every time he reaches in, well, there you are. Do yourself a favor and just once, don't be there."

Belle sighed. "He'd just buy himself a new coat. He's been wearing this one for what? seven years."

"Belle," Ruby asked softly, "what makes you sure that he won't do that anyway?"

"Oh, Ruby. If he did, well, it . . ."

"It would be awful," Ruby finished her sentence. "Listen, you go along thinking that tomorrow something wonderful is going to happen, that you're not going to be alone anymore. And then . . . one day, you realize that it's all over. You're out of circulation. It all happened, and you didn't even know when it happened."

Belle laughed ruefully. "Well, when that day comes, we'll move in together and we'll keep cats."

"I don't like cats. I like men . . . and so do you," Ruby told her.

"Well, you're one to lecture me. Has that nice Doctor Hopper asked you out yet?"

Ruby shook her head, "Nah. And you know what? I'm tired of waiting for him to make the first move. I'm just going to have to march myself down to his little office and ask him out."

"You don't think that will scare him off?" Belle asked. She didn't get an answer because her telephone rang. She picked it up, "Reference, Miss French."

"Belle, this is Ashley. Mr. Gaston's on his way down to see you."

"Oh, thanks, Ashley." She hung up. "Gary's on his way down here to see me! Where's my lipstick? My comb?"

"Did you not hear anything I said?" Ruby asked her, exasperated.

"Oh darling, I heard every word you said. But I can't play games. I am what I am."

"All right. But when he appears with some two-bit floozy on his arm, remember, you heard it on this channel first."

Belle barely had time to comb through her unruly dark curls and touch up her lipstick with a touch of Love That Red when big, brawny Gary Gaston, heir apparent to King George, made his entrance. He was carrying a fat folder in one hand,

"Hello, my Belle," the ex-college football player star greeted her with a quick kiss. He was handsome in a plastic sort of way, still with muscles developed from his college days and not-yet-faded clean-cut features. He dressed expensively but not with any sense of fashion.

Belle had been blown away when he had paid her some attention when she had first come into the company as a reference assistant. He'd invited her out on a couple of dates, gotten her to work on some of his reports and she had fallen hard for the big galoot. She had been surprised to find herself the object of his affection and even more surprised when she found herself his more-or-less steady girl.

"Hello, Gary," Belle gave him a hug. She held up the golden dress. "Just a little something I took out on approval. What do you think?"

"Oh, I approve. I approve," he told her. "It makes your eyes look bright blue and very sexy."

"Hey, that's what the salesgirl told me, but I thought she was just trying to make a sale," Belle told him.

"I'm sure she was. She just also happened to be speaking the truth." Gary reached for Belle again to try to give her a kiss.

"Gary, for the twentieth time, there's a glass wall behind you. People can see in."

"Well dearest, let them look. Everybody knows you haven't got a brain in your head. The only way you keep your job is by being nice to me."

Belle sighed, "Well, a girl has to work." She folded the golden dress back up into its delivery box.

"Work?" She had reminded Gary of something. "Oh yes, work." He held up the folder he was carrying. "Darling, will you take a look at this financial report I just finished working on? You gave me all that information and I've had Ashley type it up, so it looks pretty, but I didn't want to turn it in until you'd had another look at it."

Belle gushed, "Sure. I'd be happy to look it over." She held out her hand.

"I'd like you to especially look over the projected expenditures and make sure they're the same estimates you gave me."

"Of course, I'll look at those carefully," Belle promised.

Gary shook his head, "I don't know how I'd manage without your help, Belle. I've missed you. It seems like forever since I've seen you."

"It's been a week since Monday." Belle knew to the hour how long it had been.

"Well, you know, there's the big annual board meeting coming up and the boys upstairs have been putting the pressure on me. Ever since King George designated me as his golden boy, it feels like everyone is gunning for me, waiting for me to trip up, waiting for me to make a mistake. I guess I should be more nervous, but really, it's like I'm on the field again, playing quarterback. I'm totally in the game and everything else falls by the wayside. I'm completely confident I can handle anything they throw at me. It's nothing more than their annual war dance."

"Yes," Belle said. "Their annual . . . dance," she repeated.

"Yes," agreed Gary sitting on a corner of Belle's desk.

"Every year they have the same dance," Belle said softly. "By the way, are they having that dance at the Country Club around Christmas?"

"There's a dance at the Country Club?" Gary asked her, clueless.

Belle focused on placing the financial projections in the center of her desk. "Yes, I think so. You just happened to mention it one day . . ."

"Oh yeah," Gary remembered. "You're right. Good memory," he told her. "You're terrific."

Belle blushed and shrugged. "No, it's just that I am able to associate certain things with certain . . . other things."

Gary managed to look contrite, "I guess I should have gone ahead and asked you sooner." He looked up, "You didn't make another date, I hope?"

"Oh . . . uh . . . I don't think so," Belle told him. "Now, exactly when was that dance?"

Gary had pulled out his pocket calendar. "Here it is. The Saturday before Christmas. Looks like your handwriting."

Belle checked her desk calendar. "Ah, as it happens, I find that I am free that evening," she told him.

Gary beamed, "Good. Good. Then you'll be able to come . . . and wear that dress?"

"Oh, I'd love to, Gary," Belle gushed.

"Well then, I'd better mark my calendar that I have a date," Gary reached over to the pencil bin on Belle's desk and wrote on his calendar. "There, that way I won't forget it."

"Yes," Belle agreed. "Now you won't forget it."

"Great. We'll have fun. Lots of fun," Gary told her. "And are we still on for our Thanksgiving ski trip?"

"Of course, assuming you won't cancel it at the last minute this year like you've done two years in a row," Belle reminded him.

"Nothing, nothing will interfere with this year's ski trip," Gary promised.

"That's great to hear," Belle was relieved. "Now, Gary, if you don't get out of here, I won't get a chance to look over your financial projections."

"Right, Belle. Get to it and send it up to me this afternoon . . . " he started for the door. "Or better yet, bring it up yourself."

Belle shook her head, "I'll send it up."

On his way out, Gary smiled at the young women sitting at their desks, "Bye, girls. Always a pleasure seeing your freshly scrubbed, smiling faces."

The three women watched him and then looked at each other and shook their heads.

"I'll never understand why he's the boss. He's a dumbass," Emma said.

"Yeah, Miss Belle is doing all his work for him," Regina agreed.

"It's his family connections," Ruby explained, "and he's a man."

"I certainly don't see what Belle sees in him," Emma added.

"Oh ladies," Regina suddenly realized. "it's time for Coffee Break."

"I'll be along shortly. Save me a seat," Ruby told them. When they had left, Ruby went to Belle's doorway, "Belle? Everything all right?"

"Oh, Ruby," Belle wrapped her arms around herself. "He asked me. Finally, he asked me."

"Really Belle! That's great! When's the date?" Ruby asked.

Belle seemed puzzled. "When it always was - the Saturday before Christmas. Wait, what date are you talking about?" Belle asked.

"The date. The date for the wedding," Ruby explained.

"What wedding? He invited me to the dance," Belle shared.

"The dance! Oh, for Pete's sake! What did you expect me to think?" Ruby danced around repeating Belle's words, "Oh Ruby, he asked me! Finally, he asked me!" Ruby shook her head. "Ladies and Gentlemen," she addressed an imaginary audience, you have just heard another episode of the life of Belle French, Spare Tire." Ruby just sighed. "I'm leaving out for Coffee Break."

Belle manned the Reference Room herself, sitting at Regina's desk. When the phone rang, she promptly answered, "Reference, Miss French . . . uh huh . . . uh huh . . . let me jot that down . . . yes, yes . . . I'm positive we've got that . . . Can you hold a minute? . . . thanks."

She set the phone down and left the desk area to run back into the stacks to find the requested information. Quietly, Weaver entered the Reference Room. He looked around, finding the area empty. _Where was everybody?_

Another phone rang, and he heard Belle shout out, "Oh dry up!"

He looked around and announced, "I'll get it."

"Who's that?" Belle shouted out from the stacks.

"Weaver," he told her.

"Oh," she poked her head out from between the bookcases. "Thank you."

Weaver picked up the phone, "Hello, Reference Department. Weaver speaking . . . No, I'm afraid that Miss Mills isn't here at the moment. May I help you? . . . What's that?"

At that moment an older woman came toddling into the Reference Department, catching Weaver's eye. He watched her even as he turned his attention back to the phone conversation.

"All right, wait just a minute and I'll get a pencil . . . " He searched the desktop and found both paper and pencil. Meanwhile, the elderly woman checked a slot in the mail bins tacked up on the back of the door. Weaver returned his attention to the telephone. "Okay, shoot . . . Huh? . . . Would you mind repeating that? . . . Yes . . . It's been reduced . . . black velvet . . . strapless . . . with what kind of scarf?" The woman toddled out of the room. "Puce? . . . Yes, I do know how to spell it . . . Right, I'll tell her when she comes back in."

Belle had come back into the desk area, carrying a book.

"Miss French, an older woman just came in, checked the mailboxes, and left. Who is she?"

"Oh," Belle pointed to a large image above the door, an image of a young woman dressed in Grecian robes holding up a globe. "She's our trademark. She's been with the company since it began, sixty years ago."

"Oh," said Weaver.

"I'm not surprised you didn't recognize her," Belle told him. "She's changed her hair."

"Ah!" Weaver nodded.

Belle picked up the phone. "Yes, we do have that information. I'll have it sent right up to you. Is there anything else? . . . Well, good. You're welcome and thank you for being so patient." She hung up.

"Miss French . . . uh . . ." Weaver hesitated. "Would you be free for lunch?"

Belle was puzzled, "Lunch? You mean, me and you? Lunch?"

"Yes, lunch. The midday meal. Is there some company policy that would prevent us from having lunch together?"

Belle shook her head. "No . . . no . . . no." She went back toward her office. "Let me check my calendar." She stopped before going into the little office and turned back to him. "I just remembered. I'm free."

He gave her a slight, crooked smile. "Good. I've got a lot of questions to ask you. And . . . " as he stood, he noticed his shoe was untied. "lunch is as good a time as any to get 'em over with." Belle watched him tie his shoe. "One o'clock?" he asked standing back up.

"Sounds good," Belle agreed.

"I'll pick you up here."

"Sure."

 **NEXT: Belle experiences a most unconventional lunch date.**

 **Rumors abound regarding Weaver's activities.**


	3. Late

**Desk Set**

 **Chapter 3**

 **Late**

 **One Thirty**

Belle was walking back and forth in the Reference Room. She checked her watch. _The lunch invitation had been for today?_

Ruby came back in the office having been out for a brown bag lunch in the break room. "Girl, you been stood up?" she asked.

"Maybe so. Beginning to wonder if I got the day or the time wrong," Belle told her. "All I know is, I'm starved."

"Good. If he takes you to Curaté, get the sautéed mushrooms. _Tres_ expensive, but very good."

"I'll remember. I may eat myself right into next week."

"Well, darling, if he shows, you take your time. I'll mind the store."

"You're a dear," Belle told her and ran her fingers through her hair. "But I'm giving up waiting out here. I'm going in my office and clean up that top shelf. It's gotten to be such a mess."

Belle stood on her chair – probably not her smartest move as the chair was equipped with wheels. She had lifted up one of the vines of her ever-growing philodendron and was dusting the books on the top shelf. She had already had one sneezing fit resulting from the cloud the dusting cloth had produced. There was one little speck that she couldn't quite reach, and she leaned over to get it. The chair rolled and . . .

She pitched backward.

She lost her balance

and . . .

She found herself in Weaver's arms.

"Oh!" was all she managed to say, finding herself looking deeply into the man's soft brown eyes, feeling the warmth, the strength of his arms as they cradled her.

"Are you all right?" he asked the startled woman.

She was stunned and just looked at him.

"Are you okay?" he repeated his question.

"Yes, yes, I think so," she managed to tell him.

"What were you doing?" he asked.

"I was standing on a rolling chair trying to dust that top shelf."

"A rolling chair?" he repeated. He was still holding her.

He'd just come into her office and before he could speak, he'd seen her falling, stepping in just in time to catch the woman, and save her from hitting furniture and floor.

He probably held her in his arms longer than was necessary, lost in her blue eyes, the delightful curves of her body melting into his. They both became increasingly aware of their positions and, clearing his throat, he gently set her down.

"Yes. Thank you. You'd think I'd know better than to stand on a chair with wheels, but . . . it just seemed easiest. Thank you."

"You're welcome, very welcome."

"You're late," she told him.

"Am I? Sorry."

"I was beginning to think I'd misunderstood you."

"Oh, no, not at all." On their way out, Weaver picked up a brown paper sack he'd set on Emma's desk before coming into Belle's office. He held the door for her and they walked to the service elevator. As they stood waiting, he turned to her, "Tell me, Miss French, what training have you had for your job?"

"Well, a college education, majoring in library science. Got a master's. I was gonna take a Ph.D., but I ran out of money." She paused and again ran her fingers through her unruly hair. "Is this an interview? I mean, I would've had my hair done and gotten a new suit or something."

"No, no, no. Just getting the vital statistics," he assured her.

The elevator door opened, and they stepped in. Belle was surprised when Weaver pushed the "up" button.

"So, what else prepared you for your job?" he asked as the elevator started up.

"Well, as you know, my father was a teacher until he retired and opened a florist shop. My mother also taught school, but she passed away with cancer when I was sixteen, so we didn't have much money. I've read the local papers, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times and the Washington Post backward and forward for the past umpteen years."

Weaver nodded.

"I don't smoke. This is my natural hair color. My secret desire is to travel the world. I live alone . . . and so do you."

That caught Weaver's attention. "How do you know that?"

"Because you're wearing one brown sock and one black one," she told him. She'd watched him tie his shoe earlier and the sock discrepancy had been quite apparent to her sharp eyes.

He lifted up his pant legs to check and was astonished. "You're right!"

"If you lived with someone, they would've told you," Belle told him.

"That's one of the advantages of living alone," he told her with a smile. "Nobody tells you . . . anything."

The elevator door opened.

They stepped out onto the rooftop patio area, the chill November wind blowing steadily. He led her out to one of the tables.

"This is a nice place," he told her. "I found it the other day when I was exploring the building." He settled into a chair. "Have you ever been up here before?"

"Many times . . . in May," Belle told him, buttoning up her coat and wrapping her scarf around herself. She gingerly sat down across from him.

"Now, we have, uh, roast beef and ham and cheese." He began unpacking sandwiches. "You can have your choice."

"Oh," Belle came to a sudden realization as she looked at the cellophane wrapped prepared sandwiches. "A picnic."

"This is an ideal place for concentration, isn't it?" Weaver told her. "No waiters, no people, no telephones."

"No central heating," Belle added.

"But plenty of hot coffee," Weaver told her, pulling an insulated container out of one of the paper bags along with two paper cups. He poured her a cup of black coffee, which she took, wrapping her fingers around it for the warmth.

"Now," Weaver began, settling in, unperturbed by the biting wind. "I have a kind of personality questionnaire here. Some of these questions may seem a little silly to you, but you'd be surprised what they indicate about general intelligence, adaptability and so forth. And they may also be a bit of a tease for your memory."

"Oh, a tease?" Belle repeated.

"Just answer the question, you know, without, uh . . . don't dwell on the question."

"Uh huh, I won't," Belle told him.

"We'll start with a little mathematical problem."

"Fine," Belle was following him.

Weaver picked up a paper cup filled with celery and olives. He held them out to her. "Celery? Olives?"

Belle peered into the cup. "Four olives. Three pieces of celery."

Weaver glanced into the cup. "Right, but that's not the question."

"Oh," Belle took a bite of her sandwich. "Sorry."

Weaver began, "Now, a train started out at the station with nine passengers aboard and a crew of nine. At Eleventh Avenue, four got off and nine got on."

Belle nodded, clearly following the question.

Weaver continued. "At White Plains, three got off and one got on. At Chappaqua, nine got on and four got off. And at each successive stop thereafter, nobody got off and nobody got on until the train reached its next-to-the-last stop, where five people got off and one got on. Then it reached the terminal."

Belle nodded, "That's easy. Thirteen passengers and a crew of nine."

Weaver blinked. "Uh . . . that's not the question."

"I'm sorry," Belle apologized.

"My question is, how many people got on at Chappaqua?" Weaver asked.

Belle answered instantly, "Nine."

Weaver looked at his little notebook. "That's correct," he told her.

"Yes, I know," she told him.

Weaver looked at her as if she was an alien life form. "Would you mind telling me how you arrived at that conclusion?" he asked.

"Spooky isn't it," Belle told him. "Did you notice that there are also nine letters in 'Chappaqua'?"

Weaver sat back. "Are you in the habit of associating words with the number of letters in them?"

Belle shrugged. "I associate many things with many things."

Weaver nodded. "I see."

"Aren't you going to ask me how many people got off at White Plains?" She answered her own question. "Three."

He looked back at his notebook. "But there are ten letters in 'White Plains'," he told her.

She shook her head. "Eleven," she corrected him.

He quickly counted the letters and confirmed she was right. "But only three people got off there?"

"Yes. You see, I've only ever been to White Plains three times in my entire life."

"Well, suppose you'd only been there twice?" Weaver asked.

"But I wasn't," Belle told him. "I've been there three times." She adjusted her scarf. "Aren't you going to ask me how many people got on at Croton Falls?"

Weaver looked back at the question. "But there is no Croton Falls mentioned in this question."

"No, but it is the next-to-the-last stop on that line," she told him, shivering. "Anyway, it was one person." She looked around, pulling her coat in close. "Aren't you cold?"

Weaver shook his head. "Oh no. Don't worry about me. I never get cold." He made some notes and turned to another page in his notebook. "Now, do you notice anything unusual about the following sentence? 'Able was I, ere I saw Elba'."

Belle frowned. "Uhh, no, although I don't think Napoleon ever said anything like that."

Weaver nodded and was about to make another note when Belle perked up. "Oh, unless, you mean because it's spelled the same way backward and forward. That's a . . . what is it? a palindrome. Is that what you mean? I know another, 'Madam, I'm Adam."

Weaver nodded. "I doubt if he ever said that." He realized that he was smiling at her. "Now, I have three telephone numbers. I'm going to repeat them just once and I want to see if you can repeat them after me."

"All right," Belle told him.

"Are you ready?

"Sure," Belle said.

"304-9291, 226-1096, 304-1921." Weaver said, saying the numbers slowly, one per second.

Belle nodded, chewing on her sandwich.

"Tough question?" Weaver asked her.

"No," Belle was still chewing. "Tough roast beef." She took a breath, "304-9291, 226-1096, 304-1921," she answered.

Weaver was obviously surprised _and impressed._ "Uh . . . would . . . would you mind telling me . . . how you managed that?" _Nobody had ever gotten all three numbers correct before._

"Well, the first was 304 with the year of the Bank Panic reversed. The second one was 226 with thirty years after the Norman Conquest. And the third was 304 with the first and last numbers the same as the last number in the first example and the second and third digits from that first number transposed."

Weaver sat silently for a moment, blinking his eyes. _Wow._ He sighed and regrouped. "All right then. Try this question. There is a pond with lily pads. The lily pads double each day. On day forty, the entire surface of the pond is covered with lily pads. On what day is half the surface covered with lily pads?"

Belle took a sip of her coffee. "That's easy. Day thirty-nine," she answered him promptly.

Weaver licked his lips and took a deep breath. "Nice. Let's try this one. If it takes five minutes for five machines to make five widgets, how many minutes will it take one hundred machines to make one hundred widgets?"

It was Belle's turn to blink. "Oh my. Of course, I'm immediately tempted to say one hundred minutes, but if we look at the time it takes one machine to make one widget that would be five minutes. So, five minutes is a constant and each machine will make one widget per each block of five minutes. So, the answer is five minutes."

Weaver sat quietly a moment. "Nice, very good," he finally said. He hadn't been expecting this – she was blowing him out of the water. He'd known reference librarians were smart, but he'd never encountered anyone who was such an adept thinker. _It was like watching a magician with an impressive act, and then he shows you what he's doing – and you find out that it's not a trick - it's a skill, and you are even more impressed._

Weaver took a moment before returning his attention back to his notebook. "Now, this next question is my last one and it is a legitimate question, in that there is a real and a correct answer."

"Go ahead." Belle was finishing up her sandwich.

"You have one hundred pennies in front of you. Ninety of them are heads and ten are tails. You are to divide them into two groups with the same number of tails."

"What's the catch?" Belle asked him, recognizing the presented problem as being too simple.

"You are blindfolded," Weaver told her.

"Oh, that's quite a catch." She thought for a moment, "Are there any restrictions on the sizes of the two groups? I mean, they don't have to be equal in total number of pennies or anything?"

"They don't have to be equal," Weaver confirmed.

Belle hesitated and shook her head.

"Don't see an answer?" Weaver asked with a certain measure of satisfaction coming through. _Had he finally stumped this woman?_

 _But he also realized that he was disappointed – somehow, he must have been hoping she'd get a hundred percent._

"Well, the only thing that I can think to do . . . well, this is a little silly. I pull out any ten and turn them over. If I happen to pull out all ten that are tails, they will now be heads and there will be zero tails in both groups. If I happen to pull out ten that are all heads and flip them, they will now be ten tails in both groups. And any other variations in between will work out evenly."

Weaver had to sit for a moment. _Damn! This woman was not only beautiful, but she was brilliant. She was the first person he'd ever met that had answered this last one – and she'd done it quickly._ "That's impressive," he finally admitted.

"How did your machine do on this test?" Belle asked him leaning forward.

There was a moment before he answered. "My machine?" Weaver played dumb.

"Yes, your machine, _Doctor_ Weaver." Belle sat back and regarded him closely. "You see, I had a little time to do some research on you."

"Did you now?" he folded his notebook up and stuffed it back into his pocket. _He should have expected this – this woman was amazing._

"You were born in Glasgow, Scotland, in April … which makes you an Aries. You put yourself through the University of Glasgow and then went on to Cal Tech to get your Ph.D. in Science. You were then recruited by the U.S. military and sent to Greenland where you were put to work on some project so top secret that I wasn't able to find out anything about it. You've been in the headwaters of the development of electronic brains and, since you've been out of the military, you have marketed your own machine, which you call EMMARAC – the Electromagnetic Memory and Research Arithmetical Calculator, which I'm going to call Emily from this point on. You were married but are now divorced, and you have one son. That's all I found out so far, but," she gave him a gentle smile, "I've only had a spare half hour to work on it and only had time to make three calls."

Weaver sat back, still impressed, impressed on so many levels. He appreciated intelligence and it was quite the bonus that the intelligence came in such a delightful package.

"Tell me, have you ever seen one of these electronic brains work?" he asked, trying to deflect the conversation from himself.

"Like your Emily?" she asked.

"Yes, like my Emily," he admitted.

"Actually, yes, the morning we met, as a matter of fact. It was why I was late into the office. I saw a demonstration of one from IBM."

"Yes, the IBM machine. Did you see it translate Russian into Chinese?" he asked.

"I certainly did. I saw it do everything. A little frightening. It gave me the feeling that maybe, just maybe, people were a little bit outmoded."

"Yes, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if they stopped making them," he told her with his own smile. _Hell, this woman was remarkable. She was brilliant and beautiful. It didn't make sense to him that she was dating Gary Gaston, one of the junior vice-presidents. He couldn't imagine the two together. He'd met Gary twice and both times his assessment was that the man was a muscle-headed lout._

He walked Belle back to the Reference Department and, after an odd moment of lingering, he thanked her and moved on.

 **After Lunch**

"How was it? Where did you go?" Ruby asked when she saw Belle had come back.

"It was exhausting. And it was cold. We went up to the rooftop. We ate sandwiches from the automat. He gave me a personality-slash-intelligence measure and talked to me about electronic brains." Belle pulled a face and went back into her little office.

 _But for all her protests, she had enjoyed her time with the enigmatic Mr. Weaver – especially those earlier moments when she had been wrapped in his arms. He didn't have the big lumbering muscles that Gary had, but he was certainly strong, and she had fit very nicely in those arms. She'd felt safe and protected. She wasn't sure what to think of him._

 _He seemed to be carrying around too many secrets._

 **Next Morning – Wednesday before Thanksgiving**

Belle found herself riding up the elevator with her friend, Mary Margaret, a sharp legal secretary, married to one of the firm's top attorneys.

"Belle," Mary Margaret greeted her.

"Mary Margaret," she returned the greeting. "How's everything in Legal?"

"As ever. You haven't been in to see us for a long time."

Belle shrugged, "No new gossip to share. None of the junior vice presidents getting divorced or anything."

"Well, I have heard something that concerns you, personally," Mary Margaret shared.

"Really?" Belle was interested.

"Oh yes," Mary Margaret confirmed.

"You haven't heard that I'm engaged to be married, have you?"

"Oh, my no! Are you?" Mary Margaret asked.

"No," Belle admitted. "But if you ever hear anything like that, you come and tell me right away and be sure you get the name of the man. Now, what have you really heard?"

"Well, I was down in Personnel late yesterday. And while I was there, they sent down from King George's office for your personnel file."

"They did?"

"Yes, And you know, when they send for those personnel folders it generally means they're either about to promote you or they're adding up the severance pay."

Belle digested this information as she got off the elevator to head to her own department. Ruby was waiting.

"I thought you'd never get in. Do you know what Weaver is doing?"

"He's probably up on the roof feeding the pigeons," Belle replied.

"I wish, but no," Ruby was irritated. "Do you know what he's doing here?"

"No, what?" Belle asked.

"He's trying to replace us all!" Ruby wailed. "Replace us with one of those mechanical brains. He's working under a special contract with George Spencer to see if that damn machine of his can be adapted to this department. This means the end of us all!"

"What? Where is all this coming from?"

"We've been researching him and found out that he's the head of this company – Weaver's Electronics. They create these machines, set them up in companies and then everyone loses their job," Ruby explained.

"Ruby, calm down. No machine can do our job," Belle told her.

"Well, that's what they said in Payroll over at the National Bank. He designed their machine and, as soon as it was installed, half the department disappeared."

"Well, I would guess the machine in Payroll was probably just a calculator. Ruby, listen to me, they can't build a machine that can do our job. There are too many cross-references in this place. I'd match my memory against any machine any day, and yours, too. Now, the worst thing that can happen is for us to get panicky. Let's not tell Regina and Emma."

"Too late," Ruby told her. "They're down at union headquarters right now trying to find out if there's a law against this."

"Oh, dear lord." Belle might have said more but Mr. Weaver, Himself, came strolling into the Reference Department. He was still dressed in his jeans and an increasingly crumpled white shirt, _but he made them look good_.

Young Henry Mills, the building's mail courier, and general all-around errand runner, followed him into the department, "Mr. Weaver, Mr. Weaver, here's those files you wanted, sir. They asked if you'd please return them to Personnel as soon as you're finished." Henry waved at Belle and Ruby. Weaver settled into the microfiche corner perusing the top file.

The phone rang and Ruby, keeping her eyes on Weaver, answered it, "Reference Department. Miss Lucas." She listened to the voice on the other end and answered cautiously, "Well, uh, no. Under the present sign of the zodiac, Aries is at war with Sagittarius and conditions would be considered hostile. . . Right, continued alertness should be the order of the day. . . That's right . . . Right, I'll see you later – perhaps." Another phone rang as she hung up the first.

"Lucas Department. Miss Reference speaking. I mean, Miss Reference Department . . . oh, you know what I mean . . . The traditional Thanksgiving song? Well, there are several. One of them is _Over the River and Through the Woods_. . . Sure, thank you."

The phone in Belle's office rang. "Miss French, Reference."

It was Ashley, "Belle, Mr. Gaston is heading down to your office. With flowers."

"Thanks, girl," Belle hung up and quickly gave herself another coat of lipstick.

Gary swept in the office.

"Hello Gary, glad you caught me in," Belle gushed. "I was planning on leaving a little early today to get my hair done. Oh," she acted as if she had just noticed the flowers. "Lovely."

"Well, Belle. You know I think you're an angel. Read the card, will you."

Belle slowly opened the card and looked disappointed, very disappointed. "So, we're not going – no ski trip this year – again."

"I'm so sorry," Gary apologized. "I bet you're already packed, too. I'm so sorry. And, probably I won't be back in time for that dance."

"No dance, either? Where will you be instead?" Belle asked.

"Los Angeles," Gary explained. "Leaving out tonight with a stopover in Chicago." He shrugged. "You know when you work for a network, you have to expect this sort of thing."

Belle gave him a tight smile and sat down, "Well, I can't say I'm not used to it."

"I know, we didn't make it last year either, did we?" Gary asked.

"You had to go to Miami."

"Or the year before," Gary shared.

"You had to go to Atlanta."

"I'm just sick about this, Belle. But I can hardly say to Spencer that I can't go with him, because I have a ski weekend planned with Miss French."

"Oh, you're going with Spencer?"

"Yeah, he could've asked Nolen or Jefferson or half a dozen other guys. But he didn't. Just me."

Belle beamed at him. "I think you're moving up."

"Thanks to you," Gary said magnanimously. "That financial report had a lot to do with this. I got quite a few compliments on it."

Belle plucked a carnation from the flowers Gary had given her and placed one into his lapel. "Here, for the rising young executive."

"Belle, why don't you drive out to the airport with me?"

"Oh . . . no . . . I don't think so. All those people flying away and me, just sitting there, sitting . . . sitting . . . sitting."

"Well, I guess, I'll . . ." Gary wasn't sure what to say next.

"I'll leave a light burning in the window for you," she promised him.

"It won't have to burn long. I'll be back before Christmas," he told her. "Look for me in your stocking."

"Bye Gary."

"Goodbye, Belle." And he gave her a quick kiss before clearing out.

Weaver had watched the exchange. His low estimation of the smooth, oily Gary Gaston was further confirmed. Miss French was much too good for the wanker. _He knew for certain that If he'd had a chance to go on a ski weekend with the delectable Miss French . . . well, he damn sure would have made it happen._

 **Same Wednesday - Evening - Rain**

It was Wednesday evening. The skies had gone dark early – a nasty, icy fall storm had arrived. Belle was alone in the Reference Department. She had originally planned to leave early for her ski trip, but – again – that hadn't happened. Instead, she had let her staff go home early and had managed the office by herself. She'd worked on past closing time and the building had emptied out.

It was going to be a lonely Thanksgiving – another lonely Thanksgiving.

She sighed and turned off the lights.

 **A.N. The 'little chat' that Belle and Weaver have on the rooftop is my adaptation of one of my all-time favorite movie scenes. Weaver knew Belle was smart, but now he's aware she's in a league of her own.**

 **NEXT: Belle has guests for Thanksgiving Eve.**

 **Thanksgiving turns out better than she ever expected**


	4. Getting to Know You

**Desk Set**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Getting to Know You**

It was going to be a lonely Thanksgiving – yet another lonely Thanksgiving.

Belle sighed. She was probably the last day-time employee left in the building. She turned off the lights to the office.

"Hey!"

She heard a voice. She turned the lights back on.

"Thanks." It was Weaver. He stumbled out from the depths of the stacks.

Belle apologized, "Oh, I . . . I'm so sorry. I had no idea you were still here. I thought you had left Reference a while ago. Most people left early today because of the holiday tomorrow."

"I'm sorry. I just got back there and nested in behind one of the book stalls. I got reading and didn't realize how late it was." He glanced at the bouquet she had in her arms, "Nice flowers.

"Thanks. They're a sorry-we-aren't-going-away-gift." Belle reached up to turn off the lights.

"Sorry." He paused. "What's the weather out? I'd heard that we may be in for a storm," he remarked as they headed for the elevators.

"Hopefully, it will hold off. I have an eight-block walk home," Belle told him.

They rode down in an awkward silence. The elevator doors opened to the front lobby and they waved at the lone night security officer as they headed for the front door.

They stepped out of the building just as the bottom fell out of the storm. It was a miserable, cold, wet rain that was freezing as it made contact with the sidewalks and the roads.

"If you will wait here, I can run and get my car," Weaver told her. "I'll be happy to take you home."

"Oh, but that's not . . ." Belle's voice trailed off after the man had dashed off into the deluge, ". . . necessary. I'll just wait until it slacks off."

It was only a moment – _the man must have a parking place in the executive lot –_ before a sleek black Lamborghini pulled up and a window on the passenger side rolled down.

"Get in Miss French," Weaver called through, and Belle made the mad dash to his car, getting drenched despite her brief time out in the downpour.

"Where to?" he asked, as she settled in next to him. She began directing him towards her building, just a few blocks away.

"This is a nice car," she told him running her hands along the smooth, soft leather covering the seats.

"Yeah, after I made my first big sale, I bought this for myself," he told her.

"Must have been some big sale. Oh, here's my building," she pointed out the old brick apartment complex where she lived.

"And, just like in the movies, there's a parking place in front." He pulled in.

"You must have good parking karma," she told him. "Are you staying near here?"

"Out toward the airport," he told her.

Belle hesitated. "Listen, this rain is awful and you're soaked, wet and cold. Why not come up and dry off and have supper with me?"

"Oh, I couldn't. I wouldn't want to be any . . ."

"Don't be silly. Come on up," Belle invited him.

"Are you sure? I don't want to be a bother."

"Absolutely sure. Come on," Belle told him. "I have plenty of food. It's no trouble at all."

 _He wasn't sure this was a good idea. He was thinking he wanted a good deal more from the exquisite Miss French than dry clothes and supper. And to be up in her apartment, unchaperoned – it wasn't proper and could damage her reputation if anyone should find him in her apartment._

 _But he couldn't possibly turn her down._

Reluctantly, Weaver walked up the three flights of steps to her apartment. He looked around her little place, decorated much like her office - cluttered with plants and bright swaths of color. She was flitting around, hanging up her coat (he didn't have one), and putting the flowers in water.

"Would you like something to drink? I'm pretty limited but I know I have some vodka and some Tang and we can make screwdrivers."

"Sounds . . . interesting," he agreed to the drink. He watched her moving around, mixing and stirring - not exactly a graceful woman, but she was delicate and deliberate, and he thought her the most enticing creature he'd ever met.

 _Did this woman have any clue how much he wanted to bed her?_

"You're going to catch pneumonia if you don't get out of those wet things," she told him after handing him off one of the drinks she'd made. To be sure, his pant legs and socks were soaked through.

"I didn't exactly bring a change of clothing," he protested.

Belle considered, "I think I have just the thing." She disappeared into the bedroom for a moment and came out with a soft brown bathrobe.

"It's not that I'm living with a man who happens to be out of town. It's that I do my Christmas shopping early. You can change in there," she pointed to her bedroom. "I'll change in the bathroom."

"You didn't buy anybody slippers, did you?" he called after her.

"No, sorry," she called back.

When she came back out, she was wearing loose silk pants and a matching kimono top. She took their wet things and put them into her dryer.

"What do you say to a little fried chicken?" she asked him. "I think I've got some that I'd left defrosting in the fridge, probably anticipating my holiday plans being canceled."

"Sounds perfect. May I assist?" he asked.

"Sure. Why don't you get the potatoes ready and we'll get cooking."

"Better yet," he replied, "Let me take over the chicken while you do the potatoes." He heated the oil and began to mix flour, salt, and pepper together as a dredge for the chicken. He filled a large pot with water for the potatoes and turned it on high.

Cooking was not one of her long suits, so Belle shrugged and stepped aside. She began prepping the potatoes and added them into the large pot of boiling water.

"I take it you're no stranger to cooking?" she asked him.

"I learned by necessity. Money was tight when I first began my business and I soon realized cooking for myself was much cheaper than eating out. And I realized if I could read, I could cook."

"You have a specialty?" she inquired.

"Not really. Maybe hamburgers? Of course, my fried chicken is legendary."

"I'll have to try those burgers sometime," she told him.

 _Was she flirting with him? His body had responded immediately._ "Please," he answered quietly. She looked at him and there was another uncomfortable silence before the chicken required attention.

"Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?" she asked him, settling in to wait for the potatoes to finish cooking.

"Me? No. My son will be with his mother and her boyfriend _du jour_. I was planning on sleeping in, watching the parade, breaking out a TV dinner, maybe taking in a couple of football games." He tested the oil with a drop of water before setting in one of the flour-dredged pieces of chicken. "How about you?"

"Well, my plans got canceled. I was going on a ski trip, but it got canceled."

"So, what are you going to do now?" he asked.

"Oh, I'll probably sleep in, watch the parade, break out a TV dinner, take in a couple of football games," she told him. Suddenly inspired, she pulled out a brownie mix and a bowl, added some water, stirred, and then scraped the resulting goo into a square pan. She popped the pan into the oven.

He chuckled. "There's a little restaurant near me that has been advertising a Thanksgiving Dinner special. Would you . . . would you like to be my guest?" _She had managed to get some chocolate on her cheek and he had to restrain himself from licking it off._

Belle considered. _Would this be considered cheating? No - this would be an innocent lunch with a co-worker. Yeah, just an innocent lunch._

 _It wasn't her fault that the co-worker was a distinctly attractive man with gold-flecked brown eyes and a warm voice and a biting intellect._

 _And he made her lady parts go all soft and damp._

 _No, no. It would be just an innocent lunch._

"I hope I haven't over-stepped myself, Miss French. I know you're in an exclusive relationship with . . . uh . . . Mr. Gaston," he began.

"Thanksgiving lunch sounds wonderful. I'd love to go with you," she told him. _Really, Gary had no real claim over her._

Weaver gave her a nod and a quiet smile. "Thanks. It'll be nice not to be alone on a holiday."

She turned her own attention to the potatoes, testing them, draining them off and mashing them with some milk and butter.

By now, he'd pulled the chicken out of the oil and proceeded to brown some flour in the pan, then added milk and water to make some gravy.

They soon sat down at her small kitchen table for a hot supper.

"My goodness, this is really good," she remarked after her first bite. "You must tell me your secret."

"Oh, now we great chefs never divulge our secrets."

"I thought that was magicians?"

"It's chefs, too."

"Well, perhaps there is another secret I can get you to spill," she began. "We know that you're the father of this electronic brain and you're planning on putting one in my department. So, just what all are your plans for my little department?"

"Uh . . . I really don't know that I can . . ."

"Can you at least admit to me that no machine can do the work that we do?"

"I will admit that you and my EMMARAC have something in common. You are single-minded and relentless when you are trying to get an answer," he said with a smile. _Good grief, being in a tight closed-in space with her was beginning to overwhelm him. He wanted to vault across the small space between them and take her right there on the table, scattering the potatoes and the fried chicken._

"Hmmm," Belle sat back. "Tell me what does your Emily do when she doesn't get an answer?"

"Oh, she is very sensitive. She gets frustrated and whole magnetic circuits are liable to go out." _What the hell did she see in that idiot Gary Gaston?_

Belle shook her head, "Something like that is happening to me."

"Do . . . do you smell something?" he was abruptly genuinely distracted by the smell of something burning.

"What? Oh dear, I put in those brownies," she got up to check on her dessert. While she was in the kitchen, the doorbell rang.

"Oh, can you get that please?" she called out to Weaver.

He opened the door. "Gary," he greeted the man, surprised to find his rival, his very wet rival, standing on the other side of the door.

"Weaver? What are you doing here?" Gary was also obviously stunned. He'd never expected to find another man in Belle's apartment.

"I might ask you the same question. Miss French and I were both working late. I drove her here and the bottom fell out, so she invited me up for supper," Weaver explained.

Belle came out. "Gary! What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on your way to Los Angeles by way of Chicago."

"A snowstorm blew in. O'Hare is closed."

"Oh . . . well . . . uh . . . won't you join us for dessert? There's plenty . . . and . . . uh . . . some coffee," she hesitantly invited him in.

"Just coffee," he said sourly.

"I'll get another cup," and she disappeared into the kitchen.

"I . . . uh . . . suppose I should have called before just dropping by."

"Yeah," Weaver sat back down. "You should do that next time."

"Here we go," Belle came back in carrying a tray with Gary's coffee and two small plates each with a big brownie on them. She looked at the two men. "Did I miss something?"

"Oh no, Mr. Gaston was saying that he probably should have phoned before just dropping by," Weaver said evenly. "And I said that I thought perhaps he should have."

"Well, it never occurred to me that anybody would be here." Gary was a bit surly.

"Thank you," Belle said acerbically.

The three sat in a painful silence.

"Still raining out, Gaston?" Weaver asked.

"Sleeting. Were you waiting for it to stop?"

"No, not really," Weaver answered.

Gary hadn't had any of his coffee. He was seething. "Being this civilized is ridiculous. I mean, what I'm seeing here looks pretty primitive . . . unless, of course . . . there's some other explanation," Gary looked back and forth between Belle and Weaver.

"Other than what?" Belle asked him, her irritation rising. "That we're having a sleazy affair? That as soon as you left town, I jumped the sexy electronics consultant? Next, you'll be accusing me of trying to sleep with him to find out just what all he's up to."

Weaver perked up. "What? Are you saying you didn't bring me up here to practice your feminine wiles," he asked her wide-eyed.

Belle fixed him with a steely gaze.

"You mean you weren't going to try to romance my secrets out of me?" Weaver sounded disappointed.

"What?!" Gary shouted.

"Of course, I wasn't," Belle shouted back. "Gary, it was pouring freezing rain. We both got soaked, I asked him up here to dry off. And while we were waiting for his clothes to dry out, we fixed a little supper," Belle explained. She glared at Weaver, "And I had no intentions of trying to romance any secrets out of the man."

Weaver attempted to look contrite. "That's the truth, Gaston. This isn't even my robe. It's a Christmas present she had on hand. It's for somebody with the initials" Weaver looked down at the lapel, "G. G." He looked over at Gary Gaston. "Oh."

"Hope you like it. Now that I've embroidered those initials I can't take it back," Belle told Gary. She turned to Weaver. "You going to eat your brownie?" she asked sourly.

"Hell, yeah," Weaver told her and dove in.

"I don't get it," Gary complained.

"This is delicious," Weaver told her.

"I just don't get it," Gary repeated.

"Absolutely delicious."

"You aren't the Belle French I know at all," Gary complained.

Belle just sighed. "No, no, I guess I'm not," she agreed. "You think of me as an old coat hanging in your closet that you can take out whenever you need it. That shows how much you know. I have men up here all the time. There's a constant parade of men coming and going, in and out. Like a revolving door." At that moment, her doorbell rang again. "See, there's another one now."

"Do we need to hide in the bedroom?" Weaver asked affably. _He was enjoying himself._

"Oh lord no. We're all adults here." Belle got up and found a drenched Ruby standing at her door.

"Hullo," Ruby greeted everyone swaying slightly. "I've just gotten thoroughly pickled and can barely put one foot in front of the other. I do this every damn year before I head for home – it helps me handle the family. But, then . . . I realized . . . I am too drunk to drive and I should go somewhere to sleep it off before I start the drive home," she explained her presence. Her eyes lit on Gary. "What are you doing here? I thought you were going out of town?"

"Snowstorm," Gary explained. "Airport closed. Flight delayed until tomorrow morning."

"All right then. Well, how about you? What's your excuse?" she asked Weaver.

"Caught in the rain, came up to dry off, stayed for supper," Weaver explained. "I guess I better be on my way. I left my shoes in the bedroom." He realized belatedly what this sounded like. "I changed in the bedroom and left my clothes . . . oh hell. They're in the dryer and . . . well, they should be done . . . dry by now." He stepped out, leaving Gary, Belle, and Ruby alone.

"Ruby?" Belle began. "Would you mind . . . ?" She looked pointedly toward her kitchen.

"Oh," Ruby understood. "Do I smell something burning in the kitchen? I shall go and check." She scurried out leaving Gary and Belle alone.

Gary sighed, "All right, Belle, I should have called before I just dropped in, but I thought it would be a nice surprise. The last thing I expected . . . ."

Belle interrupted, "If you're going to go on about how the last thing you expected was to find me with a man . . . "

"Now Belle, that's unfair . . . . If I thought that you were easy and stepping out on me . . ."

"But you're wondering now how many other men I've had up here in your absences," Belle completed his thought.

"Now Belle, we've known each other six years . . . "

"Seven," she corrected him.

"And what we've had has been great. No strings on either of us," Gary seemed oblivious.

Belle agreed sharply, "Yeah, no strings."

"And I've learned I can depend on you . . . for many things – your warmth, your wit, your understanding. Belle, you've become a part of my life. You're important to me." He hesitated, "That's why I want to ask you this."

Belle's eyes lit up, expecting . . . "What Gary?"

"Let's not let our special relationship be destroyed by what's happened here tonight. I'll admit I was wrong for coming in without calling, with taking for granted that you'd be here, just waiting for me. I'm willing to just forget it ever happened and I'll see you tomorrow."

"No, you won't," Belle reminded him.

"Oh, that's right. I'll be in Chicago. Okay then, I'll call you the first chance I get." He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Good night, Belles."

"Good night, Gary." She watched him leave. Once the door was shut, Weaver poked his head out of the bedroom.

"All clear?"

"Yes, I guess I can let those other five guys know they can come out from under the bed, the closet, the pantry and wherever."

Ruby had come out of the kitchen carrying a brownie and joined them. "Gary's gone?"

Belle nodded.

"Sooo, what's really going on?" Ruby asked.

Belle groaned. _She didn't want to go all through this again._ "I'll get your room ready and tell you all about it," she told Ruby. She had a daybed in her study that Ruby was no stranger to.

 **Thanksgiving**

Weaver had left soon after Gary. He'd gone home, driving in the sleet and freezing rain, leaving Belle with her best friend. Before leaving, he had invited Ruby to join them for Thanksgiving lunch, but Ruby refused, claiming she had to go to her grandmother's diner in Frog Level – a long-standing tradition – although she confessed, she'd really prefer spending Thanksgiving with Belle and Weaver.

Weaver came around the next morning to pick up Belle at 11:00.

Belle was wearing a full tunic top over a long full skirt when he came by. Weaver, as usual, was dressed in his jeans and a clean shirt.

"Is everything all right between you and Mr. Gaston?" he asked.

"Yes, he's prepared to be gracious and overlook my indiscretions," she answered glumly.

"Nice of him," Weaver told her. "You two have been together a while?"

"Seven years," she answered wearily.

"Seven?! Wow."

"What? What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. It's just that . . . uhm . . . well, if I had been seeing you for seven years, I think I would have either broken things off long ago or made things more permanent."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. You're a very fine lady, Miss French. If we were dating, I wouldn't want other men sniffing around you and I'd be willing to make a commitment. It's none of my business, but . . ."

"You're right, it's none of your business."

They rode in silence for a while.

"Maybe we should go back to me pretending that you are going to try to romance my secrets out of me. I rather like that fantasy," he finally shared.

Belle nearly giggled. "Really? You know, I've never thought of myself as a _femme fatale_ ," she told him.

"Well, maybe you should. You've got the looks for one."

"Really?" Belle knew she had pretty eyes, but otherwise . . . She was short, with no fashion sense and hair with a mind of its own. She couldn't see herself as an industrial spy.

"Definitely," he assured her. "You're beautiful and intelligent and, did I say beautiful?"

Belle shook her head. "I'm not sure who's trying to seduce whom."

"And you're grammatically correct," he added. "That's always a turn-on."

They pulled into the restaurant's parking lot.

"What do you see in him?" he asked her before they left the car.

Belle didn't have to think about it. "He's really attractive and he's obviously going to go places and . . . well, he has been very attentive – flowers, candy, compliments, you know."

"Do you love him?" Weaver asked.

Belle didn't answer right away. "I used to think I was in love with him . . . maybe . . . maybe now I'm thinking that it was just infatuation. When he first came to work at ATNN, all the girls were gaga over him, but he singled me out as being special."

"So, you were flattered, and thought you'd hit the jackpot." He sat quietly a moment. "I knew a lot of girls like you in school and college. Smart girls who'd go for big, dumb popular guys. Guys like me . . . well, we never had a chance."

"You must have had something to offer – I mean, you got a woman to marry you."

"Well, we were young, drunk and careless. She got pregnant. I did the honorable thing."

Belle sat open-mouthed.

He gave her a weak smile, "Too much information?" he asked. He opened the car door and went around to escort her into the restaurant.

 **Too Much Wine**

Over their meal, they shared about their families. Weaver told her about his son, a bright boy of twenty-two. He shrugged off questions about his ex-wife. He deflected questions regarding relationships with other women.

Belle shared about her own family, how she had grown distant from her father after her mother's death. Her father had had difficulties adjusting to the death and had adopted a problem with alcohol. Belle had put herself through school and gotten her job with ATNN. She had quickly risen to the supervisory position and then had met Gary at the company. She'd started out helping him with some financial reports and the relationship had grown quickly from there. Yes, she'd had a couple of other boyfriends in college, but nothing serious, nothing long lasting.

After their three-course restaurant meal, Belle invited Weaver up to her apartment.

"I thought you might want to watch a football game and . . . maybe have some coffee," she said shyly.

"Yes. I'd like that," he told her softly. _He was more than willing to spend time with the little librarian._

By now, they were quite comfortable with each other. They sat next to each other on her little plump sofa watching some random football game on her black and white set. Belle suggested some wine.

"It's not fancy, but it's a favorite," she introduced the bottle of pinot noir.

"Sure," he was agreeable.

She also brought out a port wine cheese ball and some table water crackers for them to munch on.

He regarded her as she lounged next to him on the little sofa. "I want to thank you. Holidays have always been tough for me, but this has been an exception, an excellent Thanksgiving."

She nodded. "It has been good. Holidays have been rough for me too. Gary's missed every Thanksgiving since we've been dating. He's either been on a job for King George or he has gone back to his family. Same with Christmas"

"Let me get this right - he's never invited you to join him with his family – after seven years as a couple?"

Belle bit her lip, "He tells me his family is very old-fashioned and wouldn't understand him bringing home a woman who wasn't engaged to him."

"Sounds more like he's ashamed of you. I don't understand. You are delightful. Now, I wouldn't take you to meet _my_ family – not because of you - but because my father's a lech and he would hit on you and try to grope you in the kitchen, and my mother's a drunk and she would say the most outrageously inappropriate things before she passed out at the dinner table."

Belle found herself blinking back tears. "You think Gary's using me, just because I'm convenient?"

"You said it," he responded. "Miss French, you have to know that you are an . . . incredibly desirable woman. Do you have any idea how much restraint I'm exercising? If I thought for a moment that my attentions might be welcome, I'd be . . ."

"What?"

He didn't answer right away, his eyes locking with hers. Then, very softly, he spoke, "I'd be all over you. I'd be kissing you and touching you and I'd be doing my best to show you how much pleasure I could give you."

"You would?" she asked, astonished.

"I think," he continued softly, "I think I could make you shiver and shake and scream with pleasure."

He paused another moment and then, abruptly, he pulled her over and kissed her.

Belle was stunned. Gary had never kissed her like this.

 _Nobody had ever kissed her like this._

Mr. Weaver made her go hot and weak and she found herself responding to his urgings, opening her mouth, allowing his hands to touch her all over, and she felt like she was dissolving in his arms.

"Oh," she gasped.

"You want me to stop?" he managed to ask.

 _NEXT: Weaver and Belle move to a new level in their relationship._

 _and_

 _An Office Christmas Party_


	5. A Present From the Reference Department

**And Now, the Amazing Electronic Brain**

 _Sorry this chapter ended up running long. I began with a draft and divided it into 3,000-word chapters; however, this one just kinda exploded on me in the editing process. -twyla_

 **Chapter 5**

 **A Present from the Reference Department**

"You want me to stop?" she distantly heard him ask.

Her head was swimming and she was struggling to remember her name . . . and . . . and . . . what else? Oh yeah, breathing, she needed to breathe.

"No, no, don't stop, please don't stop," she managed to get out. "Let's go . . . to . . . bedroom." That was all the encouragement he needed. He continued kissing her, even as they propelled themselves toward Belle's bedroom and her bed, dropping clothing along their path. They fell onto the bed, and he rolled her beneath him. He was still kissing her and one of his hands had dropped between her legs and she was feeling the most wonderful feelings – nothing like Gary had ever made her feel. His fingers had pulled aside her panties and he was stroking her and there was a moment that he slipped one . . . no, two fingers inside of her.

"Oh," she managed to gasp again.

"Miss French, I'm more than a little tipsy," he had pulled back. "I would never want to force myself, but if you're willing . . .?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, please, I want you."

The pressure of his body, his hard angles pressing into her soft curves was intensely pleasurable. His hand between her legs, touching her, was evoking waves of desire. He had skillfully managed to slide her panties down her legs. She was astonished when he dropped his head between her legs and she felt his breath on her most intimate places. Then she felt his tongue and his lips, gently, lapping, teasing. This was sooo good and sooo much better than anything Gary had ever done to her. His tongue was especially persistent and supremely adept at whatever he was doing. She felt her body tightening and responding and she couldn't stop herself. Her fingers caught in his hair as she flailed around for something, for anything, to hold onto and she gave herself up to him, shuddering and riding waves of intense, sweet pleasure. It took a moment for her to regain any semblance of faculties. And now, bereft, she felt isolated, deprived, and yet she hoped, she knew, he could help her out, take care of her.

"Let me . . . Let me get some protection," he managed to murmur and somehow he was able to pull out his wallet from the back of his jeans which he'd dropped to the floor. Inside the wallet, he found what he was looking for and, quickly, he was tearing into the condom wrapper. He settled between her thighs.

"Miss French," she dimly heard him call her name.

"Yes."

"Look at me. I want to see you when I come into you."

She blinked and opened her eyes, finding herself looking deeply into his soft brown eyes. "Mr. Weaver," she whispered.

"Miss French," he replied, and then he gave her the gentlest, the kindest of smiles…...

And she felt him, in one strong, powerful surge, he entered her, taking possession in the most primal way. Deep, hard, thoroughly.

 _Now, this felt right._

"Yes, yes, yes," she urged him on.

"Damn," he swore. "This is good. You are so tight, so close. I could die here." He pulled her legs up so that she was wrapping them around his waist.

"Don't stop," she pleaded with him. "Please, don't stop."

"I've no intention of stopping, Miss French. I have every intention of making you scream."

Gary had never taken her like this. She felt so intensely . . . _female._ He was inside of her, large and hard and very powerful, and moving back and forth, hitting at just the right spots, grinding and teasing and . . . oh, he felt sooo good and she didn't know how long she could hold out and surely now, soon, too soon, she began to feel herself tighten and build.

"Weeeeaverrrr!" she screamed.

He couldn't last any longer once he felt her squeezing and pumping him. He poured himself into the condom, part of him wishing he could be giving himself up to her without the rubber barrier. He collapsed.

Both of them were panting.

"That . . . that was . . . that was wonderful," she managed to gasp out.

"Wonderful," he agreed, collapsing onto her.

 **Black Friday - Morning**

Belle stirred, feeling unusually warm. She was being held, one arm was under her shoulders and another arm was across her body grasping her upper arm. A leg was thrown across her legs.

She stirred again and turned . . . and met the man's chocolate eyes.

"Regrets?" he asked.

She considered, "No, not at all – although, maybe, I'm feeling a little guilty. At least, I think I should be feeling guilty – like I've cheated on Gary."

"You two engaged?" he asked.

"No."

"Has he said or done anything that makes you think he's going to propose?"

 _Be truthful now._ "No."

"Has he indicated that you two are exclusive?"

"No."

"Miss French . . . uh . . . I don't see how you can cheat on someone with whom you are not in a committed relationship." Weaver licked his lips, his mouth dry from the wine he'd drunk the previous evening. "Do you . . . do you not think . . ." he shook his head. _It wasn't his place to tell her all about Gary and the man's loose lips – Gary didn't hesitate to brag about the different women he was schtupping – the man had hardly been faithful to Miss French. Weaver knew this man's sort – he was one of those men who demanded fidelity from his female companions but did not apply the same rules to his own behavior._

"You were going to tell me that Gary sleeps around on me, weren't you?" she asked quietly.

 _Well damn – the woman could just about read his mind._ "Well . . ." he fumbled for words.

"Ruby has been telling me the same thing – about Gary sleeping around. She thinks he's a prize jerk, who uses my brains to make himself look good, but who's only on my doorstep when he wants something or when there's nothing better around."

"Ruby's a good friend. She said all that? I'm curious, but afraid to ask, what does she think about me?"

Belle laughed, "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "I'll grit my teeth."

"She thinks you're a beast who's going to wave your hands and one of your new magical thinking machines will appear in our office . . . and then we'll all be out of our jobs."

He sighed, "Oh, Miss French, I wish I could tell you . . . reassure you . . ."

"I promise you I can keep a secret. If I could just know what you're up to and how it's going to affect my staff – it wouldn't go any further." Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, were fixed on his.

 _It was hard, very hard, not to tell her anything._ "Miss French . . . I can't tell you. I have good reasons, I promise you. And . . . I wouldn't . . . I couldn't . . . do anything to hurt you," he assured her.

"I hope not. I really like you and if you ended up being the reason why I and all my friends end up jobless, it would be hard, because . . . because . . . I would have to dislike you then."

"Well, I do want you to keep liking me," he told her and then gave her a light kiss. "I need to grab a shower. Join me?"

"Another time," she told him. She didn't think she could manage showering with the man. It would be . . . too much . . . too soon.

In short order, he'd showered, dressed and joined her in the kitchen where he found her fixing breakfast, dancing around barefoot in an oversized tee-shirt, her hair a frazzled mess. "Did you have plans for today?" he asked. Belle looked relaxed and refreshed as she fussed about in her little kitchen.

"No, I've already done the bulk of my Christmas shopping, so I don't have to go out and fight the crowds." She was frying eggs and bacon in one pan, hash browns in another and had some bread toasting. She handed him a cup of coffee. "Will you stay the day, or do you need to get back to your apartment?"

"I . . . I don't want to impose . . ." he began. _He was distracted by her pretty legs._

"Not an imposition, I would appreciate having the company. It gets lonely here without another person or even an animal for me to talk to."

"Then, I'll stay," he told her and was rewarded with a bright smile.

After breakfast, Belle pulled on a pair of old jeans and they settled in comfortably for the rest of the day. They talked. They watched a little television. She then suggested Scrabble, but he knew for sure that he'd be outmatched in this game. At his suggestion, they played Gin Rummy, but he soon realized that she outclassed him here too, her remarkable memory helping her along. They talked more . . . about books they had read, movies they had seen, their favorite foods and . . . just everything.

It was early evening when she broached the subject. "You know, I enjoyed, really enjoyed . . . what we did . . . last night . . . a lot," she began awkwardly. "But it's not how I usually behave at all. I think I was feeling abandoned by Gary and the wine . . . "

"You're thinking it was a mistake?" he asked.

 _The man could read her mind._ She dropped her eyes, "No . . . yes, well, as long as I think that Gary and I can . . . maybe . . . work through the difficulties in our relationship . . . I . . ."

"You don't want me around confusing things." He gave her a sad smile. "Miss French . . ." he began.

"See, we don't even call each other by our first names," she pointed out.

He stopped a moment and nodded. "Belle," he began slowly. "I have deep, strong feelings for you. I may very well be falling in love with you. If you want me to step aside, so that you can try to work out your relationship with Gary, I will respect your wishes - although it's not what I want to hear . . . it's not what I want. But, you must promise me that if things don't work out between you and Gary, then you will provide me an opportunity to . . . confuse you again."

Belle considered. "I can agree to that."

 **After the Thanksgiving Weekend**

Yes, she should have felt guilty.

But she didn't.

Weaver had been right. Gary had not proposed, and she was not engaged. She didn't belong to Gary. She didn't owe him anything. Gary had never even told her he loved her . . . or that he was falling in love with her – not like Weaver had done.

Gary had told her that he wanted to keep things on the same level they'd been on – and that meant that Belle would be at his beck-and-call, although, he might or might not be available to Belle.

Weaver kept his word and kept his distance. They didn't repeat their tryst but, of course, her best friend Ruby suspected something was up. Belle had gotten flowers from him on Monday and again the following week. At least, she guessed they were from him. There was no note, just the flowers.

"I'm figuring Weaver for the mysterious flower sender," Ruby observed. "Did you two do the Wamsutta Watusi over Thanksgiving?"

"Ruby!" Belle was scandalized.

"So, you did!" Ruby surmised. "I want to hear details. I want to hear about positions, duration, dimensions and how many times he rang your bell."

Belle sighed, "We were both a little tipsy, but let's see now: missionary, probably about thirty minutes if you include foreplay and there was some excellent foreplay . . . uh . . . quite satisfying and . . . uh . . . twice."

"Promising," Ruby told her. She lowered her voice, "You know I've looked up Weaver's net worth. He's rolling in it. He's got one of the hottest companies around, deals a lot with top 400 clients. From a strictly financial standpoint, he's a winner. And I'd say if he can ring your bell twice in thirty minutes, he's a big winner."

"I had an evening of indiscretion with the man. We were lonely, more than a little drunk, and I guess we looked good to each other," Belle tried to explain.

"Uh huh," Ruby said, sagely. "I've watched the man. Belle, you still look good to him. You crook your finger and I promise you, he'd come a-runnin'."

Belle rolled her eyes. "Right. We had a one-night stand. It's over. There's nothing between us."

"You say that often enough, you might convince yourself," Ruby told her.

 **Dasher, Dancer (The Office Party)**

Mr. Weaver walked into the reference department. He picked up one of the phones and dialed. "Yes, Miss Ariel. I'm expecting a Miss Green from my lab to come later this afternoon. She'll ask for me. Would you send her down to the Reference Department when she comes in? . . . . Thank you . . . and you may want to drink a little something for those hiccups . . . well, you're welcome." He hung up the phone and then looked around for a bit. Not seeing who he was searching for, he disappeared into the aisle of bookcases in the back.

 _Hark, the herald angels sing._

 _Glory to the newborn king_

 _Peace on earth and mercy mild_

 _God and sinners reconciled._

Emma wasn't sure. "Are you sure you want this mistletoe right over the door?" she asked Ruby.

"Certainly. If anything good drifts in, we can grab him,"

"Why don't you just wear it in your hair?" Regina asked.

"Hey, along about four o'clock, I just might," Ruby told her. "Now ladies, this may be the last Christmas party we get to throw here, so . . . let's make it a lulu." She pulled a bottle of champagne from a bucket of ice, opened it and filled three little paper cups for herself and the rest of the staff.

"We're starting the party before lunch?" Emma asked.

"Before lunch, instead of lunch, and after lunch," Regina told her.

"What is the company policy here about Christmas?" Emma asked.

Ruby answered, "Anything goes, as long as you don't lock the door." Her phone rang and she answered, "Reference, Miss Lucas . . . . why yes, I certainly can. You got a pencil? . . . So, you can write it down and file it someplace. You know, you call every year for the same information. . . . Ready? . . . Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen. . . . You're very welcome." She hung up and sighed. "They're running true to form. At four o'clock, they'll be calling up for a complete text of _A Visit From St. Nick."_

"Merry Christmas, everybody! Merry Christmas!" Belle came in loaded down with packages. "Coming through with Christmas cheer." She set the mound of presents on Ruby's desk and looked around. "This place looks great."

There was a rap on the door and young Henry the Courier stepped in. "Ladies, more Christmas cards," he handed Belle a small stack.

"Oh. thank you, Henry. Wait a second." She picked through the pile of packages on Ruby's desk and found what she was looking for. She handed it to Henry. "This is from the Reference Department to you."

"Hey, thank you, ladies. You're all so nice. Thanks," Henry gushed. "And Merry Christmas."

"Same to you, Henry," Belle told him. "And wait a minute."

"Ma'am?" he stopped.

"Did they give you anything over in Legal?" she asked the young courier.

"No, ma'am."

"Well, the courier we had last year went over there and made a big show over what we had given him, and they beat our figure."

"Wow, thank you. I'll try that."

"Oh, Henry," Belle called to him as he was about to leave. "Do you have a nice crisp twenty?"

"Yes ma'am," he answered.

"Well, add that to what we gave you. Catch on?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered enthusiastically.

"And come back to our party later."

"Yes, ma'am." Henry gave her a big smile before heading out.

The telephone promptly rang.

Belle answered the phone. "Reference, Miss French, Merry Christmas . . . . Why yes, indeed I can. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen . . . You're welcome, it's a pleasure." Belle hung up the phone and leaned over to Ruby, "Give me the bottle."

She poured herself a drink from the opened champagne bottle into a small paper cup and swigged it down. "What do you suppose it will be like here next Christmas when we're gone?" she asked the group. "Do you think Emily will throw a party?"

"Don't talk that way," Regina told her.

"It's bad luck," agreed Emma. "It's Christmas."

"Well, if we do get canned, we won't be the first or the only ones to lose our jobs because of a machine," Ruby observed.

"Yes, I understand that thousands of people are being replaced by these electronic brains," Belle began. She was looking through Christmas cards. "Oh look, this one's from Marion Hood. She had your job, Emma. And there's a picture of herself and her husband. And, ooh, oh, they had a baby!"

"Oh, it's cute," Regina said.

"All babies are cute," Ruby informed her.

"Let's drink to Marion's baby," suggested Belle and all four women raised their paper cups in a toast.

Young Henry poked his head into the Reference Department, "Merry Christmas ladies. Thanks for your advice, Miss French – Legal made a point to beat your amount."

"Well, you're quite welcome," Belle told him.

"And now, it is my great pleasure to inform you that the party over in Legal has begun . . . and all of you are invited," Henry told them.

"Let's go," Ruby said enthusiastically. "I love Legal. It's all men."

"Shall we?" Belle opened the door and stood aside for her staff. "Oh, I'll need to take my champagne. They won't have any in Legal – just bourbon if it's like last year."

The women set off singing.

 _Dashing through the snow_

 _In a one horse open sleigh_

 _O'er the fields we go_

 _Laughing all the way._

 _Bells on bob-tail ring_

 _Making spirits bright_

And they all left the Reference Department.

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

From out of the stacks, Weaver poked his head. He looked around at the empty office and shrugging, he picked up the phone, "Hello?" He listened, "Uh, Santa Claus's reindeer?" He considered. "Uh . . . uh . . . why, yes, I believe I can. Um . . . uh . . . let me see now. There's Snoopy, Dopey, Sneezy, Grouchy, Happy, Sleepy, uh, Rudolph, and Blitzen . . . uh humm, you're welcome . . . and oh, Merry Christmas."

The phones were blissfully silent for the next half hour. Weaver had remained sitting at Regina's desk, the one closest to the stacks. He busied himself looking through the odd materials on the woman's desk. It looked like her specialties included poisons, crime, and fashion.

"Merry Christmas."

He looked up. It was Belle. She was obviously tipsy – very tipsy.

"I realized that my department had been left un-womanned. Probably not a good idea," she told him.

"I was in earlier looking for you, but you were late this morning," he told her.

"Yes, I know, but it's all right. I brought a note from my father," she smiled at him.

"Nothing very much gets done around here today, does it?" he asked standing up.

Belle laughed, "Oh, well, we never work here anyway. This is our playpen. But . . . if you're planning to work, those budget figures you asked for are over there. Emma finished it up for you."

"Thank you." He hadn't moved.

"You're welcome." Belle sidled up to him and spoke into his ear. "If you're gonna read our budget, why don't you let us read your report?"

"My report?" He shrugged, his body tightening at her proximity and her breathy voice in his ear. "Oh, too late. I've already sent that in."

"Ohhhh," Belle pouted. "Have you?"

"Yeah," he was watching her closely. Other than their post-Thanksgiving indiscretion, they had not been intimate. Yet, things had not become awkward between them, if anything they had been softer, cordial and friendly, perhaps even a little flirty. At the moment, she was standing very close to him, lifting her face to him. There was just a small distance between them.

"Oh, well, there you are. I have been looking all over for you."

They both startled and turned. It was Ruby, returning to the Reference Department. "I came in here to find something. What was it? . . . Oh yeah, your other bottle of champagne," she remembered. Belle pointed to her office where the second bottle was sitting in a bucket of ice.

"If you take that bottle to Legal, you won't get a swallow of it," Belle warned her.

"Oh, you're right," Ruby agreed. "Maybe I better drink it right here. Join me Belle, Weaver?"

"I certainly shall," Belle told her. They poured drinks all around, including one for Weaver. He had re-positioned himself, sitting down at Emma's desk.

Ruby held up the bottle, "1956. That was a good year."

Belle frowned, "Not for me, it wasn't. There was a blizzard that year and I spent Christmas Eve in a bus station at Canal Street."

"Ohhh," Ruby was sad to hear this story. She too had had more than her share to drink. "That reminds me. Just as I was getting off the Mexican Avenue Bus last night . . ."

Belle and Weaver both started laughing.

"What's so funny?" Ruby asked.

"The 'Mexican' Avenue bus," Weaver supplied.

"You mean the 'Mexington' Avenue bus, don't you?" Belle asked, giggling, the alcohol she had consumed dulling her ordinarily sharp intellect.

"Haha, so I do," Ruby agreed. "Well as I was saying, I saw this nice big car with the most attractive looking gray-haired man in it. And he slowly drove around the block three times and I could tell . . . by the way that he was looking at me . . . that if I had been any other kind of girl, it would have been the start of a very beautiful romance."

"More power to you," Belle toasted her friend. "You may be lonely, but more power to you."

Weaver smiled at the two friends, "It has usually been my experience that when a car cruises around the block slowly, it has usually been my experience that they are mostly just looking for a place to park."

Both women frowned at him.

"Rubes, do you think that our Mr. Weaver has ever ridden on the Mexican Avenue bus?" Belle asked.

"Would require a change of attire," Ruby mused.

"Yes, can't you just see him standing there in his serape and bare feet holding onto the bus strap?" Both women dissolved into a gale of silly cackles.

The phone rang, and Weaver picked it up, "They're gone for the day," he informed the caller and hung up.

"Hey, the Mexican Avenue bus story reminds me. We should have some tequila." Belle spoke up. She stumbled back into her office and came out with a bottle of golden liquid. "Gary gave it to me after a trip to Mexico City."

"I don't think so," Ruby shook her head. "Something about liquor on liquor will make you sicker."

"No, that's 'liquor on beer, have no fear, but beer on liquor will make you sicker," Belle corrected her.

"So, tequila's all right then," Ruby decided. She held up her cup for Belle to pour in some golden liquid."

Belle turned her attention to Weaver, "Hey, Emily's Daddy. Would you stop fussing over that budget for a minute and answer a question?"

Weaver looked up from the budget he'd been perusing. "Sure."

Belle smiled at him. "Just for kicks, you don't have to answer if you don't want to. I mean, don't dwell on the question, but . . . I warn you, it may be a bit of a tease for your memory and you should know that there's a trick to it."

"Go ahead," he said smiling at the woman.

Belle began, "If six Chinese men get on a train in Las Vegas and two of them are later found floating face down in a lily pond half covered with lilies and the only thing they can find to identify them are two telephone numbers, 123-4567 and 123-0000, and they are both carrying one hundred pennies, what time did the train get to Palm Springs?"

"Oh, that's easy," Weaver replied. "Nine o'clock."

"And, now, now would you mind telling me how you happened to arrive at that answer?" Belle asked him.

"Well, there are eleven letters in Palm Springs and you take away two Chinese gentlemen, you have nine," he explained.

"Why you're brilliant, Mr. Weaver," Belle told him.

"You're not so bad yourself," Weaver responded.

"Hey, why have you just slept with our Belle just the one time? Wasn't she good enough?" Ruby asked.

"What?! Ruby!" Belle exclaimed.

Weaver considered his response. "Miss French is well aware that I would welcome her company any day, any night, any time," Weaver told her evenly.

"Well, that's good to hear. She has certainly been a lot happier since Thanksgiving and I'm giving you the credit for that," Ruby went on.

"Ruby, I'm halfway engaged to Gary!" Belle reminded her.

"So, maybe it was the other half that boinked Weaver here."

"Oh Ruby, I need you to shut up. Have some more tequila," Belle interrupted her friend. "And Mr. Weaver, may I pour you more?"

"Please," he held up his cup to Belle. "Just fill it right to the top."

Ruby watched him as Belle filled up the cup. "You should drink it all down. It's good for you. Maybe it'll loosen you up some."

Weaver smiled at the leggy brunette and emptied his cup in one swig.

"Oh, very good, Mr. Weaver," Belle praised him. "And now, it's time to give you your present from the Reference Department."

"Well, thanks," Weaver hadn't expected anything. He took the box Belle handed him.

"Just a little something we all thought you'd like," Belle told him.

Weaver opened the box and began to pull out a long black and gold scarf.

"Those are your college colors, aren't they?" Belle asked anxiously – "from Glasgow University."

"Uh . . . yes," he agreed.

"We could have given you orange and white for Cal Tech, but in this part of the country, people would think you'd graduated Clemson . . . or Tennessee."

"This is six feet long," Weaver noted pulling out the long skinny scarf.

"I really had to do some fast work to finish it," Belle told him.

"This is amazing," Weaver told her, standing and wrapping it around (and around) his neck. "I don't know what to say, other than thank you and Merry Christmas."

Belle smiled at him. "You're welcome and Merry Christmas to you." She was standing very close to the methods engineer.

"And peace on earth, good will to men," Ruby finished.

"Belle!"

Everyone turned to the new voice.

Belle greeted the man exuberantly, "Gary! When did you get back?"

 **NEXT: The Christmas Party ends on a dull thud**

 **And**

 **Emily EMMARAC arrives**

 **Just a note - when Ruby says that Legal is "all men," this, unfortunately tended to be very true in the 1960's. Although women could attend law school and pass the bar since the 1920's, very few firms would hire women and most were force to work as legal assistants if they wanted to remain in the law field. With those few firms that did hire women (which began to increase in the 1940's when men were serving in the armed forces), they did not promote them to partner status. Women did not begin to be made partners in law firms until the late 1970's and 1980's.**


	6. Go for the Gold

**And Now, the Amazing Electronic Brain**

 **Chapter 6**

 **Go for the Gold**

Belle greeted the man exuberantly, "Gary! When did you get back?"

"I just got off the plane and came straight here. I told you I'd make it back before Christmas. Hi ya, Ruby." Gary was carrying several packages.

"Hi yourself. The party got started early this year," Ruby told him. "The gang is over in Legal."

"We'll see you there then," Gary told her. He turned back to Belle, "These presents are for your girls." He handed them over to her.

"Oh, why thank you," Belle told him, carrying the presents to put under their little office tree.

Gary noticed Weaver. "Hello, Weaver." He didn't seem pleased to see the man.

"Merry Christmas, Gaston," Weaver returned. The two men eyed each other with poorly disguised disdain.

"Nice scarf," Gary remarked.

"It was a gift," Weaver replied.

"Gary," Belle stepped in between the two men. "Come on into my office. I want to give you your present."

"Act surprised," Weaver said in a low voice.

Gary turned back to Weaver, "Did you say something?"

"Me? Not a word."

Gary turned back to follow Belle. "Does . . . uh . . . he hang around here all the time?"

"All the time, early morning to late in the evening," Belle told him. She looked up at Gary. "He's doing his job, Gary. Please, don't make a scene, not today." She handed him a large square box wrapped with care and capped with an ornate home-made bow. Gary handed her a small unwrapped box. She poured them both paper cups of champagne. "To us." She raised her glass.

"To us," he completed the toast and then they both drank.

"Open yours first," they both said at the same time and laughed.

"Open yours. It's smaller," Gary told her.

"All right." Belle took a deep breath. This was a small box – a box that was about the right size for a ring.

She lifted the top, opening the box, "Oh, Gary. Earrings." _Not a ring._

"You like them?

"Why . . . they're beautiful," she told him, swallowing her disappointment.

"You are an angel," he told her.

She frowned, "But now I don't feel I can give you your present. It's just too silly."

"As long as it's not a hand-embroidered bathrobe."

"Oh, it's as far away from a bathrobe as I could possibly get," Belle told him.

He tore through the wrapping and opened the box. "Bongo drums!" He snorted, "However did you know?"

"There was a sign over them – for the man who has absolutely everything."

"Oh, do I?" he asked.

"Maybe," Belle told him.

"Belle," he began.

"Yes?"

"I had a chance to do some thinking in Chicago."

"Oh, my. And did you enjoy it?"

"Well, let's face it," he continued slowly. "The whole company's had us married for seven years."

"Yes, they succeeded where I failed."

There was a knock on her door.

"Oh, go away," she shouted. The door opened. It was Weaver.

"I'm sorry, Miss French."

"What do you want, Weaver?" she asked him, her eyes locked on Gary.

"I guess your phone is off the hook or out of order. I've been taking your calls," Weaver began. "Someone wants to know the name of Scrooge's partner, Scrooge's first name and how many brothers and sisters did Tiny Tim have?" He started out. "Oh yeah, George . . . uh . . . Mr. Spencer called, and he wants to see you right away."

"When did he call?"

"Just a minute ago."

"Why didn't you interrupt . . . oh, never mind. I've got to go," Belle told Gary. "I'm sorry," she apologized to him even as she headed out.

"Of course," Gary told her. "I'll see you later then. Belle, dinner?" he called out to her.

"Yes, yes, that sounds lovely," she replied distractedly as she went out the door.

"She's quite a woman," Weaver remarked to Gary.

"I've noticed. I went ahead and picked up some Olympic condoms for our date tonight. Gonna go for the gold."

Weaver regarded the other man with a flicker of disapproval. He shrugged, "Gold, huh? Well, I'm happy with the bronze pack and with coming in third. Hell, sometimes I'm completely out of the metal." He gave Gary a slight smile and turned back to his budget report figures.

Belle had raced down to the service elevator and ridden it upstairs. She didn't think King George would fire her on Christmas. She shook herself, besides he wouldn't do it personally. She'd only been called up to George's office two other times.

The first was when he had wanted her to hire his idiot niece, Astrid, as one of her reference girls. That had turned out to be a disaster. Astrid was nice enough, really a sweet, caring person, but she had the attention span of a gnat and nearly the intelligence. Fortunately, she had met the maintenance man, dear Grumpy (His name was actually Grimaldi, but everyone called him Grumpy). The two had hit it off famously and they had eloped. Belle thought they seemed to be very happy together. Astrid had since been transferred all around the company creating havoc and minor disasters until she'd found her niche, putting people's paychecks into envelopes in the Payroll Department.

The second time Belle had been called up was when there had been an argument about whether a tomato was a fruit or a vegetable.

This time – this time it turned out to be nothing and not worth the anxiety attack she'd suffered running up to his office – George Spencer had had a few and just wanted to know the origin of Mrs. Claus – this was something Belle knew. She filled him in – "The first known reference was in 1849 in the story _A Christmas Legend._ The story grew from that point," she'd begun.

She left his office, breathing a sigh of relief and returned to the Reference Department. There were now quite a few people gathered, including her own department and now there were folks from Payroll, Marketing, and Legal all milling around the room.

But no Gary.

 _She was almost relieved. Interacting with Gary was becoming increasingly challenging. She had begun to realize that she had to dial down her vocabulary when talking to him, that his sense of humor was far different from her own, and it seemed to bother him whenever she did well at something._

 _So different from Weaver, whose vocabulary matched her own, who had her own sardonic sense of humor and who applauded unabashedly anytime she did something well._

She stepped inside and surveyed the chaos. There were two competing songs going on, one accompanied by bongos. Most were singing the Christmas tune, but sitting in a chair next to her office door, Weaver sat with the drums, marching to his different drummer, softly singing a Cole Porter classic.

 _Jingle bells, jingle bells_

 _Oh, the beat-beat-beat of the tom-tom_

 _When the jungle shadows fall._

 _Jingle all the way_

" _Like the tick-tick-tick of the stately clock_

 _As it stands against the wall_

 _Oh, what fun it is to ride_

 _Like the drip-drip-drip of the raindrops_

 _When the summer shower is through_

 _In a one-horse open sleigh_

 _And the voice within me keeps repeating_

Belle stepped in, making her way over to Weaver. She joined in the singing, taking up with the next line.

 _You, you, you_

They both took a breath and then took up the song together.

 _Night and day._

 _You are the one._

 _Only you 'neath the moon_

 _Or under the sun._

Weaver gave her a smile.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Just peachy." She glanced at Gary's gift now sitting in Weaver's lap.

"Oh, Gaston left right after you did. I found these," he held up the bongos, "on the desk out there. It's been a while, but I did learn to play them when I was in graduate studies at Cal Tech. One of my professors taught me." He procured a fresh paper cup and poured her some questionable libation.

They sat quietly next to each other sipping their drinks, comfortable with each other's company amid the din of multiple conversations, the cacophony of off-key singing, and the crowd of drunken people moving around.

"What would you really like to be doing, Miss French?" Weaver asked her.

"Oh, I guess I'd like to be traveling - going to exotic places, eating strange food, meeting new people. But I'm afraid I'll be stuck within these four walls until they carry me out in a box."

"I travel a lot. It's not as much fun as you might think. Exotic places sometimes don't have plumbing, strange food can upset your stomach and new people . . . well, they can be rather unfriendly," he told her.

Whimsically, Belle turned to him. "I've had a lot to drink and this room is swaying like a boat on water," she announced to him. "Tell me, is this your first Christmas. . . uh . . . ocean . . . uh . . . office cruise party?"

Weaver seemed quite mellow and Belle suspected he, too, had imbibed considerable alcohol. He answered, "Yes, but don't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because I believe I just might be the captain."

"Oh, well, I can help you steer," she told him. "I'm independently wealthy, you know, and I've made this cruise at least seven times."

He nodded, sagely, "Yes, yes, there is something about the way you wear that pencil in your hair that spells money."

"Isn't money a lovely thing? I do hope they don't take it away from us."

"Who?"

"They - them," she repeated in an ominous voice. She leaned over to him. "Tell me, skipper, what happened to your marriage? Did you discover that you didn't like women?"

"Oh, I assure you, I like women, specifically and particularly."

"So, what happened?" she pressed.

"She was a great beauty. I thought myself the most fortunate of men. She was willing to put up with me and all my shortcomings."

Ruby came up with fresh cups of champagne. "Here you go, you two."

They each took a cup.

"Now then, what happened?" Belle pursued the issue.

"Milah was working as a model. She stood five feet, eleven inches in her stocking feet."

"Oh, you had occasion to measure her?"

"Among other things," he smiled at Belle. "If it hadn't been for me being continually called out of town for weeks at a time . . ."

Belle interrupted, "Oh, no. You got a 'Dear John' letter?"

"No, nothing like that. I got a lot of letters, but imagine sitting on an ice cap in Greenland and getting a six-page letter telling me that the neckline in women's dresses was going to go up the following year and the hemline was going to go down."

Belle nodded, "You might have been more interested if she'd told you the neckline was going down and the hemline was going up."

"Do I look like a man who's interested in women's fashions?"

"Not even in men's," Belle told him. "So, what did you do?"

"Well, I was preparing myself to remain in a boring marriage when I discovered that Milah felt the same way about me and had decided to go out and look for adventure and excitement – with other men."

"Ouch," Belle told him.

"What? We're happier divorced than we ever were living together."

Belle shook her head. "So, it was another man? Men? Huh? That's what you think? Oh yes, I'm here to tell you, that's not the reason Milah stepped out on you. I can tell you what really happened. She had discovered that you were already in love with someone else."

"What? Who?" Weaver was surprised at her comment.

"Emily EMMARAC. That monster machine you created. You're in love with her. She's all you ever think about. That's why your socks never match."

"Hey, my socks match today," he argued with her. "Look," and he pulled up his pants legs.

Belle leaned forward to look. "Why, so they do."

"And they've been matching for some time. You've just never noticed."

"Oh, I've noticed," she told him, her voice quiet.

"I bet you write wonderful letters," he told her softly.

She was about to answer him, but Regina called to her, "Belle, you're wanted on the phone."

Belle sighed and went back into her office to get the phone, "Reference, Miss French."

"Belle, it's Ariel. Newsflash, Gary Gaston has just been made a senior vice president. He's on his way down to see you now."

"Thanks, Ariel . . . oh, here he comes." Belle hung up the phone to greet Gary who came into her little office and gave her a quick kiss. "Well, congratulations, Mr. Senior Vice-President."

Gary frowned "Well damn. I'd wanted to tell you. But, isn't it great?"

"You deserve it, Gary."

"Belle, let me tell you when King George started talking to me, seriously, I thought, I've had it now. He's found out you help me with my financial reports or he thought the job I did out west sucked." Gary shook his head, "The way things have been so mysterious around here. . . But then it turned out to be this vice presidency – Vice President of all West Coast Operations."

"West Coast?" Belle repeated.

"Yep, I've ordered two airplane tickets. We're finally going to take that plunge. We leave Tuesday and we can be married on the coast."

"This Tuesday?" Belle asked.

"Sure. The sooner the better. Why not?"

Belle seemed flustered, "Well, for one thing, my apartment . . ."

"Oh, Ruby or one of your other girls can help take care of that. You can fly back and pack up. And that apartment will go in a day. Apartments downtown rent like someone giving away cracker jacks."

"Yeah," Belle had to agree, but she still stammered, "I . . . I know, but . . . but there's also my job here. I can't just walk . . ."

Gary interrupted, "Hey, I'm a senior vice-president. I can transfer you. I'll need you at the West Coast to help take care of me. Now, is there anything else troubling that pretty little head of yours?"

"How about my staff? I don't want to leave them when they're all worried if they'll have a job come the new year."

"They'll be fine. Ruby can move into your job. We'll invite them all out to visit us next summer when we're living in our very own beach house." Gary had raised his voice.

"You don't have to shout," Belle told him.

"I'm just trying to make myself heard over those damn bongo drums. Who's playing them anyway?"

"It's probably Mr. Weaver."

Gary was unhappy, "Yeah, I guess it would be him. Who else would it be?" He spoke bitterly.

Belle pulled away from him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Gary shook his head. "Belle, when two people want to get married, they don't worry about their apartment or their job. I had every reason to think that you wanted this as much as I did."

"You had every reason to think that I wanted this twice as much as you did," she reminded him.

"But now, you're acting like you've changed your mind. And for pretty obvious reasons. It's Weaver, isn't it? You and Weaver. You know, I believed you that night when I found you two all cozied up in your apartment - 'it was raining hard and we got wet.' Yeah, right. I even apologized for thinking it was anything else. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but you've got the wrong boy."

"Gary!"

"And after waiting seven years!" Gary was ranting.

" _You_ waited seven years," Belle might have said more, but there was a discrete knock on the door.

Ruby ducked her head in, "Belle, Gary, we're all being taken down to the Rabbit Hole for a drink on Weaver."

"We are?" Belle asked.

Ruby called back to someone behind her, "She says yes."

Belle stood a moment looking at Gary. "Yes, I'll get my coat and hat," she said evenly.

"Well, I won't be joining you," he announced.

"No, I guess you won't," Belle replied quietly, watching as he stalked out leaving the reference department.

"Are we all set to go?" It was Weaver standing by the door. Before he could open the door, someone on the other side opened it.

It was a tall red-headed woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, dressed dowdily in a dull grey wool suit. "Mr. Weaver," she greeted him.

He looked at the woman, trying to place her.

"I'm Miss Greene from your lab."

"Oh," was all he said.

"You remember me, don't you?" she asked him.

"Sure, of course, I remember you," he answered.

Miss Greene pushed her way in, setting down her large, over-stuffed leather bag onto Emma's desk, seemingly oblivious to the stares of everyone else in the room. "I had the most awful time finding you. Things are very odd around here today."

"Uh," Weaver seemed a little unsettled by Miss Greene's appearance. "Well, yes they are. As a matter of fact, Miss Greene, I don't think it's a good idea – your coming here today. What do you say, you go ahead and leave early, and we wait until after Christmas to set the whole thing up? If you stay you're likely to get a terribly wrong impression of the place."

She waved him off. "Oh, I can discount that. I'm just interested in the physical layout." She looked around the room and frowned. "Well, we are certainly going to be crowded in here." She walked around as if she was in charge of the place. "We'll have to take out the copier and that other . . . what is that? . . . machine. Then we can move this desk forward . . . or maybe leave it where it is and use it for our punch cards."

"That's my desk!" exclaimed Regina.

Belle stepped forward, "What is this about, Weaver? What's going to be happening here?"

Weaver seemed uneasy, "Well . . . uh . . . you see, Miss Greene is an expert in coding and data entry. She's been coding a lot of your materials already. She'll be in charge of EMMARAC. She'll be installed here . . . I mean, EMMARAC will be installed here right after the new year."

Miss Greene spoke up, "According to Mr. Weaver's figures, it will save, in this department alone, over four thousand man-hours a year."

"Really?" Belle responded. "How ingenious of Mr. Weaver."

Weaver spoke up in a thin attempt to derail the conversation, "Hey, we were all about to go over to the Rabbit Hole and have a drink . . . on me."

"Well, why don't you and Miss EMMARAC here go over together and hoist a few?" Belle asked acidly.

"I'm Miss Greene," the redhead corrected Belle.

"Oh yes, I'm so sorry. I have such a terrible memory," Belle told her.

"Really?" the woman was surprised. "And you chose to go into reference work with a bad memory?"

Weaver closed in on Miss Greene. "Be careful, dearie. You're in the major leagues here. Come on, let's clear out."

"Well . . . Merry Christmas . . . I guess," Miss Greene said as she allowed Weaver to usher her out of the room.

"And Merry Christmas to you too, dear," Belle said quietly.

The mood in the room had gone from exuberant to dismal. The Electronic Brain was due to arrive after the new year.

Everything was about to change. Their jobs – if they would even still have jobs, were about to change.

Everyone was just left standing around numb when the phone rang.

"I'll get it," Belle said and picked up. "Reference Department, Miss French . . . why yes, yes I can," she answered softly and began,

"' _Twas the night before Christmas_

 _when all through the house_

 _not a creature was stirring,_

 _not even a mouse._

 _The stockings were hung_

 _by the chimney with care_

 _in hopes that St. Nicholas_

 _soon would be there._

 _The children were nestled_

 _all snug in their beds,_

 _while visions of sugarplums_

 _danced in their heads."_

It was going to be a sad and lonely Christmas.

 **NEXT: EMMARAC is installed and the ax falls.**

 **Special thanks to Optimistic Guest Reviewer: Something that I've tried to infuse into this story, as it was a primary concern in the movie, is the real fear people had for job security as computers moved into the work place. EMMARAC's functioning is a bit overdone (she anticipates Google's algorithm), but I have left this in the story (as a testament to Weaver's genius).**

 **A.N. It's pretty well known that awesome Richard Feynman, a long-time professor at Cal Tech, played the bongos. I thought that Weaver would have crossed the man's path while he was a student there so this meshed with the movie antics just perfectly.**

 **On a personal note, I am sitting in the crosshairs of Hurricane Florence. The state is mobilized (not our first rodeo) and there have been mandatory evacuations (we use reverse traffic lanes and mobilize school buses to get out those without transportation), the national guard has been called in (both for security and search and rescue), and insurance companies are on stand-by. Other states have offered additional search and rescue teams and electrical crews to repair the inevitable downed power lines. (Waffle Houses are still operating on green.)**

 **I live in the high country (where people evacuate to), but right now they are saying Florence will take a path directly on to us and she carries with her a serious danger for flooding and tornadoes. We're on high ground and not in a flood plain, but others around us could get flooded out and the roads may not be passable. We could easily lose electricity (which would mean no internet), so I have no idea if/when I'll be able to get back to any of those lovely people who may leave reviews and comments. Power outages can last hours to days to even weeks. We say "gas, cash, water, batteries and booze will carry us through" (instant coffee is also a good idea). Prepare for the worst, hope for the best; my state has set a goal for zero deaths. I'll be back as soon as I can be (hopefully next Thursday morning if not before). -twyla**


	7. Pink

**And Now, the Amazing Electronic Brain**

 **Chapter 7**

 **Pink**

"Call the man." It must have been the twentieth time Ruby had advised her. "Just call the man."

She hadn't seen Weaver since the disastrous end of the Christmas party. Maybe she was waiting for a phone call from him during Christmas, although clearly, he seemed determined to continue to respect her wishes that he not 'confuse' her while Gary was still in the picture.

Ruby had urged her to call him, to let him know that she and Gary had more or less broken up, but that sounded a little desperate to Belle. And besides, she was still a little angry with Weaver and increasingly anxious about how his electronic brain machine would affect her future and the futures of her little staff.

Perhaps she shouldn't have been angry with him. She knew it was his job to install the electronic brain and he had been totally up-front with her about his job. He'd let her know that he couldn't tell her what all was going on in the company, but that he wasn't planning on doing anything that would hurt her – oh, but somehow that didn't seem like a guarantee that her job was protected, certainly not the jobs of her staff.

But she couldn't help her feelings. Seeing that red-headed self-important pompous woman come in moving desks, slinging orders . . . well, it had infuriated her and the focus of her anger was . . . the delectable Mr. Weaver.

Belle finally decided to accept an invitation from Ruby to go with her to spend the holiday with Ruby's wild hair family. They were certainly distracting, but, as Ruby had told her, nowhere near as satisfying as getting a little hard body action from their enigmatic electronic brain engineer.

"Ruby, there's more to a relationship than sexual compatibility."

"Yeah, of course, but knowing the man can make your eyes roll back in your head goes a long way toward helping a relationship along."

And so, there were no phone calls.

 **Mid-January - Morning**

The Reference Department did not look the same. Desks had been pushed against each other, leaving only a single small pathway that wound between the desks to get back to the rows of stacks of reference materials. The copier and microfiche machines had been removed.

Now, dominating the room was a very large dull-green metal box. A small table stacked with punch cars was set next to the box. It sat in the center of the room where Ruby's desk and part of Regina's desk had once been. There were no bells or whistles, lights or tape drives visible on the box, only a keyboard on one side and a tape dispenser on the other. It was mostly just a big box, like a casket you might use to bury a horse, Belle had described it.

Miss Greene, her red hair pulled back into a tight bun, sporting black-rimmed glasses and wearing another shapeless dull-colored wool suit, was flitting around the box. She flicked off a microscopic speck of dust and patted the machine. "Yes EMMARAC, yes, yes." The door opened and in breezed Regina. She left the door opened and Miss Greene immediately went and shut it.

"Miss Mills! Please! These doors must be kept closed. You know how sensitive EMMARAC is to changes in temperature. We discussed all these things with you right before EMMARAC was installed."

"Oh yeah. I'm so sorry. Here are the rest of Bartlett's quotations," Regina handed her a large book.

"Oh, thank you, but ooooh, everything is so dusty here. Something we don't like, don't like at all, is a speck of dust. Do we, EMMARAC?" Miss Greene glared at Regina, "Another one of those things we discussed."

At that moment Emma came in. She also left the door open and Miss Greene sprang into action.

"Please, please, remember ladies, we _must_ keep this door closed."

Belle poked her head out of her office. "What about the doors?"

"You must remember to keep them closed," Miss Greene repeated herself. She was still holding the dusty book and, not finding any way to clean it off, she shook her head and stepped out of the reference department, carrying the offending volume and, of course, closing the door behind herself.

Ruby who'd been at her desk - which was now pushed up against the wall - spoke up, "Emmy gets pneumonia in a draft."

Belle's staff slowly began to gather in her little office.

"Well, if we do have to leave, they're sure making it easy for us," Regina remarked. "They had to move out the copier and the microfiche to make room for that monstrosity, so now we have to go down the hall to make copies or look up a news article."

"Yeah," Emma agreed. "And I'm worried about our paychecks. Isn't Henry usually here by now?"

"Wonder why he's running late today," Regina added.

"There's probably something a little extra in it – like a pink slip," Ruby answered. "It's probably about so big and it's very polite. What it boils down to is, goodbye and don't slam the door on your way out."

"Where did Emmy's mother go?" Belle asked.

"She came into contact with Regina and Emma, so she's out scrubbing up." Outside the office, the phone rang, and Ruby returned to her desk to pick it up. "City Morgue. How can I help you?" She looked at the phone and huffed. "Well, they hung up."

Miss Greene returned carrying a stack of dust cloths and two books. "Well, here we are. I was able to locate _The Complete History of the American Buffalo._ "

"It too is becoming extinct," muttered Ruby.

"Well," Miss Greene announced, polishing the books off with one of the dust cloths. "I believe EMMARAC is ready to go."

Regina muttered, "She's not the only one."

"Now," Belle walked over to EMMARAC. "This little key fascinates me, the little red one here."

Miss Greene came up next to her shaking her head vigorously. "Oh no, no. We try never to use that key, never, never, never."

"Why not?" Belle opened her blue eyes wide and guilelessly.

Miss Greene waved her off, "Oh, it's much too technical to explain to the average mind, but EMMARAC doesn't like it, doesn't like it one bit. She's liable to act up and make a lot of rude noises."

At that moment Weaver, followed by George Spencer and a number of other suits, came into the Reference Department.

Belle realized she was holding her breath. She hadn't seen Weaver since the disastrous Christmas party when, if she was honest with herself, she had been a bit sharp with the man over the whole installing-his-demon-machine-after-the-New-Year episode. She had forgotten how he could just walk into a room and command everyone's attention. She had forgotten that he made her stomach do a little flip.

Weaver greeted her staff, "Good morning, ladies. All of you boys know Miss French, of course." He stepped aside to introduce the men to his machine. "Gentlemen, here she is . . . EMMARAC, the modern miracle, the amazing electronic brain.

George spoke up, "Mr. Weaver would you mind just explaining what we can expect here?"

"Of course. No problem. Miss Greene, how is everything going?" Weaver asked his assistant.

"Oh, EMMARAC is digesting everything just beautifully, Mr. Weaver."

Weaver nodded, "Good, good. Now gentlemen, the purpose of this machine is to free the worker."

Emma muttered under her breath, "You can say that again."

Weaver glance at her, puzzled, but continued, "Uh, to free the worker and liberate his time for more important work. Now, for example, you see all those books over there and the ones over there? Every fact in them has been fed into Emmy. Now, what do you have there?" he pointed arbitrarily to one of the books.

Miss Greene promptly answered, "That is _Hamlet_. The entire text – in code, of course, has been fed into EMMARAC."

"Now," Weaver picked up a stack of punch cards, "these little cards create electronic impulses which are accepted and retained by the machine . . . so that in the future if anybody calls up and wants a quotation from _Hamlet_ , the research worker types it into the machine here and Emmy goes to work. The answer comes out here." He pointed to the tape dispenser in the front of the machine.

"And it never makes a mistake?" George asked.

"Well," Weaver began his response, "That's not entirely accurate. EMMARAC can make a mistake, but only if the human element makes the mistake first." He turned to Miss French. "Tell me, Miss French, has EMMARAC been helping you any?"

Belle carefully framed her response, "Well, frankly, she hasn't started to give yet. For the past two weeks, we've just been feeding her information . . . but, I think you could say that she will provide more leisure for more people."

"Thank you, Miss French. Thank you," Weaver replied graciously.

"Not at all," she murmured.

"Now, is there a question one of you gentlemen would like to ask the machine." Weaver had turned his attention back to the group of men participating in his tour.

"I have a question," Belle spoke up.

He turned to her, surprised. "Oh, yes. What is it?"

"The spruce budworm," she began. "How much damage is done annually to American forests by the spruce budworm?"

"All right," Weaver turned to Miss Greene. "If you would do the honors . . ." And he watched as Miss Greene began to type the question and feed it into EMMARAC.

Regina leaned forward and whispered into Belle's ear. "That took me three weeks to track down."

Belle nodded, "I know. I know."

Weaver repeated the question, "How much damage is done annually to American forests by the spruce budworm?"

"Do you remember the answer?" Ruby whispered.

"485,695 dollars," Belle answered. "And some cents."

"Well now, let's see what Emmy has to say," Weaver said, pulling out the tape the machine had spit out. "Ah, 485,695 dollars and 45 cents." He turned back to Miss French. "Now, how long did that take your department to find, Miss French?"

Belle bit her lip, "Oh, about twenty minutes," she lied.

"Twenty minutes? Well, even at that, you can see that this one operation alone could have saved your department seventeen minutes."

"Well, that's great," George spoke up. "Now, Weaver, I want these men to see the machine you've installed in Payroll." And the troop of men followed Weaver out of the room like he was the pied piper.

"Of course," Weaver could be heard explaining, "the machine in Payroll is an entirely different operation, you understand. It's a purely mathematical model. It adds in overtime. It automatically deducts income taxes, social security, and medical insurance."

Ruby shook her head, "Well, that was fun, fun, fun. I wonder how much longer it will be before the ax will fall."

After the group of men filed out, Henry came in. "Ladies, paychecks."

"Hi, Henry," Belle greeted him. "You're late this morning."

"Hold up in Payroll," he explained as he handed Belle the envelopes for each of her employees.

"Thank you, dear," Belle told him. And Henry left her holding the envelopes. She passed them out without saying a word. The four women all stood looking at their envelopes.

"So, who's afraid? Let's do the brave thing and bravery will follow. What say you, we open them all together?" Belle encouraged them to take the plunge.

The women all tore into their envelopes finding their check . . . and a politely worded pink slip dismissing them from their posts effective immediately.

They stood in silence for a long moment.

"Well," Ruby said, "now that I've gotten it, I almost feel better. At least I can stop worrying about it."

Emma asked, "How long before you can begin collecting unemployment?"

"Two weeks," Regina answered her. "I looked it up."

"Let's not get all depressed. We'll show this bunch. Maybe open up our own business," Ruby was trying to be upbeat.

Belle went back into her office. "It's going to take a moving van to get me out of this office. It seems like I've collected a ton of junk over the past seven years."

Ruby looked over her boss's office. "I'll help. I think there are some boxes in the back of the mailroom. I'll ask Regina and Emma to bring us up some."

"Thanks." Belle surveyed the room. _Where to start?_ "All the stuff in the desk in mine personally. Oh, the coffeepot is mine . . . and all of those books on the top shelf – I mustn't forget them. They're worth a fair amount and . . . oh dear."

Ruby had come back into the little office.

"What's the matter?"

"My philodendron. What will I do with my philodendron?" She looked over the huge vining plant that had twined itself around her office.

"Maybe you should dump all the plant food into it and head it toward Emmy."

Belle laughed. "I have an image of Miss Greene coming into the office in the morning and being overwhelmed by animated green, leafy vines."

"Maybe," Ruby was smiling. "Now I always thought we should just throw water on her and watch her melt. But then I feel bad – it's not really her fault that she's such a . . . a witch or something that rhymes with witch,"

Emma and Regina had already returned, each carrying several boxes into Belle's office.

"Oh, those are just great," Belle thanked the two, taking one of the boxes.

"You know, even when we get other jobs," Emma began, "we won't be together."

"You're right," agreed Regina, "I'm going to miss all of you terribly."

"Don't worry, you two, we'll get together a couple of times in the year – do lunch, meet at a bar, have a sleepover," Belle promised.

Outside of Belle's office, they could hear the phone ring.

"Oh," Ruby said, "that's my phone."

"No dear, it isn't," Belle reminded her.

They heard someone scurrying around, and they peeked out. It was Miss Greene.

"Shouldn't somebody be answering the phone?" she asked.

"Yes, dearie. Go right ahead," Belle gave her permission. They all watched her with growing amusement.

"Hello," Miss Greene greeted the caller. "Why yes, this is the Reference Department . . . huh? . . . What is a disease that could make a lot of people in close quarters become ill but not kill them? . . . Oh, this is for a television show and the characters are all aboard ship and become sick. . . . uhm . . . You're asking me? Oh . . . Well . . . where should I look for that?"

Belle and her co-workers looked at each other. Regina whispered, "The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy?"

Belle nodded. As Miss Greene stood flustered, a second phone began to ring. Miss Greene picked it up. "Hello . . . I mean, Reference Department. . . yes . . . well . . ."

At that moment Mr. Weaver came back in.

Miss Greene looked up gratefully, "Oh, thank goodness. Mr. Weaver, could you get this call? I'm on the other phone." And she handed him the phone.

"Sure," he said taking the phone. "Where is everybody?"

"Here we are, Mr. Weaver," Ruby waved to him from Belle's door.

He looked at the women obviously puzzled but then spoke into the phone. "Yes . . . uh . . . what is the information you wanted?"

Meanwhile, Miss Greene was typing in "contagious diseases" into EMMARAC.

Weaver continued on his call. "Corfu? What is that? . . . Oh, an island. Well, hang on a moment and we'll get that information for you." He laid the phone on the desk.

Miss Greene stood up . . . "Oh no, this won't do. This won't do at all! This is a list of the most deadly illnesses, beginning with Smallpox, Spanish Flu, Black Plague . . . no, this won't do."

"Well, go ahead and type in Corfu. This other caller wants information on it."

The very flustered Miss Greene sat down and began typing.

Belle, standing on the sidelines, shook her head. "Ladies, why don't we show them what people can do. Regina – take the illness call and, Emma, you get the information on Corfu." The women scurried off.

"What is going on here?" Weaver demanded.

"As if you didn't know," Belle told him.

He frowned at her, clearly not understanding. He looked back at Miss Greene. "How are you doing on Corfu?"

Miss Greene read the print-out. "Introduced into England by William the Conqueror . . . It's a bell rung every evening."

Weaver shook his head, "Not 'curfew' Miss Greene, 'Corfu'," he told her curtly.

"I'm terribly sorry. I didn't understand the spelling." Miss Greene was becoming increasingly discombobulated.

Emma picked up the phone and began reading out of a Fodor's travel book, "Hello, the island of Corfu is one of the most beautiful islands of Greece, off the coast of Albania, near the mouth of the Adriatic. Rugged mountains, lovely beaches, climate pleasant, soil fertile, food excellent. A superb vacation spot."

Weaver frowned. "Well, let's just see what little Emmy has to say, why don't we?" He picked up the tape printout "What the devil is this?"

Belle looked over his shoulder and smirked, "It's the poem, _Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight._ Isn't that nice?" She began to recite,

" _Cromwell will not come till sunset,_

 _and her lips grew strangely white_

 _as she breathed the husky whisper,_

 _curfew must not a-ring tonight."_

"Mr. Weaver, what can I do?" Miss Greene plaintively asked.

"Nothing, you know you can't interrupt EMMARAC in the middle of a sequence."

"Yes, but Mr. Weaver . . ."

"Be quiet and just listen," he instructed.

Belle responded as if on cue, reciting the next stanza,

" _She_ had _listened while the judges read,_

 _without a tear or sigh,_

 _at the ringing of the curfew,_

 _Basil Underwood must die."_

"How long does this go on?" Weaver was a bit put out as he addressed Belle.

"Quite a while. It has nearly a dozen stanzas to it," she answered him pleasantly.

"Well, where are we now?"

Belle glanced down at the tape, relentlessly spewing out of Emmy and took up with the next stanza.

" _She had reached the topmost ladder._

 _O'er her hangs the great dark bell,_

 _awful is the gloom beneath her_

 _like the pathway down to hell._

' _Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging._

' _Tis the hour of curfew now,_

 _and the sight has chilled her bosom,_

 _stopped her breath and paled her brow._

 _Shall she let it ring? No, never!_

 _Flash her eyes with sudden light,_

The phone rang, and Belle lunged for it, still quoting the poem,

" _as she springs and grasps it firmly . . ."_

Belle picked up the receiver even as she continued the poem, _"Curfew shall not ring tonight,_ " she told the caller firmly, then looked surprised, "Ohhh, they hung up."

She shrugged and placed the receiver back on the phone.

" _Out she swung, far out,_

 _the city seemed a speck of light."_

Regina picked up the first phone, "A highly contagious disease that will rapidly spread among people in enclosed places is Norovirus. It presents as very severe stomach distress and can spread rapidly . . . No, it's not usually fatal, although it can be lethal for vulnerable people . . . you're welcome."

" _There twixt heaven and earth suspended_

 _as the bell swung to and fro, and her heart . . ."_

Belle stopped reciting as EMMARAC began making high-pitched scraping sounds.

"Good heavens!" Weaver raised his voice at Miss Greene. "What have you done now?"

"What have I done? What have I done? I don't know! I don't know!" Miss Greene's voice was shrill.

Weaver took a deep breath. "You have to calm down. You have to tell me what you did. I can't fix it unless I know what you did."

"I didn't do anything!" Miss Greene screeched. "I don't know what happened. It's your machine, not mine!"

Belle had noticed an odd smell. "Should this machine be smoldering?"

"Don't you touch this machine!" Miss Greene yelled at her.

"Now, now, dearie, stop crying," Weaver told her. "Crying won't help anything. Just because you made a stupid mistake . . ."

"Stupid!"

"Stupid . . . ignorant, if you prefer."

"I did nothing wrong!" Miss Greene protested. "Ever since I got here, these people," she gestured at Belle and her co-workers, "have been trying to sabotage me. You all hate me! I've been forced to work in an atmosphere of hatred and suspicion. It's all your doing." She turned on Weaver. "You did it. You did it. You're just as bad as they are. I don't know what I did to the machine and at this point, I don't care." She stomped out.

 **Miss Greene Finds a Friend**

In tears, Miss Greene was making her way out, stepping into the main elevator, and, instead of going down, the elevator went up. She was surprised when the elevator didn't open up on the main floor but on to a strange hallway with which she wasn't familiar. A tall, handsome man stood there, equally surprised to find an unfamiliar woman in the elevator.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized. "I thought the elevator was going down.".

"My good luck," the man told her. "Were you on your way out?"

Miss Greene looked the man over – _good-looking, dark hair, pretty pale blue eyes, well dressed, no, very well dressed._ "I'm afraid I've just lost my job," she told him.

"Really, that's a shame." He looked her over – _tall, red-headed, hard to tell anything else._ "So . . . uh . . . are you looking for a new job?"

"Probably," she admitted.

"Well, as it happens, I'm in the position of needing a new executive assistant. Why don't we grab some lunch and I can do an . . . interview."

Miss Greene considered. "Give me five minutes to make myself presentable. It's been a tough morning."

"Not a problem. I'm Gary Gaston, by the way. I'm Senior Vice-President of west coast operations."

"Zelena Greene," she introduced herself, before stepping into the ladies room. "I'll just be a moment."

Gary was pleasantly surprised when Miss Greene re-appeared. She'd released her hair from the tight bun allowing the red tresses to fall in ringlets around her shoulders. She'd removed her bulky jacket and unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse, revealing more than a hint of cleavage. She'd taken off the black-rimmed glasses. She'd added a touch of lipstick and he could see that this was quite a beautiful woman. _Depending how cooperative she was, he might just end up hiring her._

 **Back in the Reference Department**

Weaver just shook his head. "I have to stop this thing and try to figure out what she did."

Belle was looking behind the machine. She pointed to something small, brown, with six legs, belly-up, apparently dead. "Could this have had something to do with it?"

He looked down and sighed. "I might have suspected, A bug got in the program. I'll need to do a hard reset." He squatted down and pulled a panel off EMMARAC's side.

"I hope he can't get it fixed," Emma muttered.

The women were all watching the man bent down with the machine. Belle caught Ruby's approving appraisal of the tight jeans that outlined the man's fine rear end – even having lost her job because of the man's actions had not dulled Ruby's appreciation for an attractive man.

"Mr. Weaver! Mr. Weaver?" It was young Henry. Agitated, Weaver reached up and took the envelope that Henry held out for him.

"This is for you, sir."

"Sign here, please," Henry held out a clipboard. Henry turned toward the ladies, "Well, this is my last drop off."

"Oh Henry, not you too!" Belle exclaimed. She turned on Weaver. "Did you invent some kind of machine that delivers mail?"

Meanwhile, the phone began to ring again.

"What do you mean?" Weaver asked her. The phone continued to ring. "Isn't anybody going to answer that phone?"

"You forget," Belle reminded him. "We don't work here anymore."

"You don't work here anymore?!" He was obviously stunned. He opened the envelope that Henry had given him. "Good night!" He held up a pink slip. "I'm not even on your payroll." He had a sudden flash of insight. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute!" He pulled himself up, facing Belle. "Let me get this straight. Did all of you just get fired?"

 **NEXT: Is our final chapter – everything gets straightened out**

 _A.N. Back in the day when computers were mainframes, they were kept in air-tight rooms to keep out dust. Sometimes programming would go haywire and one of the most likely culprits were bugs (usually roaches) that would creep into the machine – hence the phrase, "bug in the program" signifying something has gone wrong._

 _A.N. We weathered Florence fairly well. We got some wind but the main threat came from the 36 hours of heavy rain. We had enough space for the water to run off and all of our trees held, so, other than a couple of hours of Internet outage, we were able to keep electricity. East and north of us, they are still dealing with flooding. thx all - twyla_


	8. No More Confusion

**And Now, the Amazing Electronic Brain**

 **Chapter 8**

 **No More Confusion**

"Did all of you get fired?" Weaver demanded to know.

"Yes," Belle answered succinctly.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why? You're asking me why?"

"I think it has to do with that big merger that's gonna happen," Henry spoke up.

"What do you know about the big merger?" Weaver swung around to face the young mail courier.

"Oh, about a month ago I took an order from King George down to the print shop to do a new letterhead. They wanted paper, envelopes, everything. I figured it had to mean we were merging with another company and when I looked at some of the small print on the new letterhead, I could tell that we're taking over West Line Communications. I looked them up – nice little company with a solid array of stations all throughout the west coast. I could see that this is going to be a really big deal. It would mean that we won't just be east coast but coast to coast. That's enormous. I went straight out and bought some West Line stock. I'm expecting it to sky-rocket."

Weaver gaped at the young man and muttered, "A multi-million dollar secret merger plan and the mailboy figures it out." He shook his head even while he was replacing the panel he'd pulled off to reset the machine.

"So," Belle concluded. "They _are_ letting most of us go."

"No!" Weaver was shaking his head. "No, I already knew all about this merger. It wasn't supposed to get people fired. It was supposed to do just the opposite."

"Really?" now Belle was confused.

Weaver had picked up the phone, "Miss Ariel, this is Weaver. Let me speak with George . . . What? . . . He's been trying to reach me? . . . Great . . . George, you broke a promise to me. Do you know that everyone down here in Reference has been fired? . . . What? The entire building's been fired?! . . . The machine in Payroll . . . oh . . . Something glitched there and _everyone_ got a pink slip . . . Right . . . Someone must have reset a default key. I'll head right down there and get it rectified." He hung up the phone.

"Am I to understand that we're not really fired?" Belle asked him.

He shook his head and explained, "The EMMARAC down in Payroll – it fired everyone in the building from George down to Henry."

"So, we're really not fired?" Ruby asked.

"No, no one's fired," he assured them all.

"Well, if we're not fired, what's going to happen when EMMARAC takes over?" Belle asked him.

"Yeah, what?" Ruby repeated.

"Ladies," he addressed the group. "EMMARAC is not going to 'take over.' It was never intended to 'take over.' It was never intended to replace you – like any machine could ever replace even one of you. It's here to free your time for real research. It's here to help you."

"Why didn't you let us know about this merger thing?" Belle asked him.

"It was all very hush-hush and I was sworn to secrecy as a condition for the job. They didn't want the news to get out because it would have raised stock prices, possibly to the point that ATNN couldn't have afforded to make the buy-out which would have kiboshed the whole merger. Now that the news is out, I can tell you that there's going to be _more_ work here. We have plans to enlarge this office, take over this entire floor, and probably you're going to need to be hiring a few more women to help you." He shook his head, "Ladies," he turned to Belle's staff, "I've been impressed with each and every one of you from the get-go. I just hope that they can find women who are half as good as you lot when they start expanding the staff."

Belle found herself smiling. She might have said something more, but the phone rang.

She picked up the phone, "Reference, Miss French . . . what? . . . what? . . . what is the total weight of the Earth? . . . Who needs this information? . . . Oh, Promotion and Marketing. I'll have to get back to you on that . . . Thank you." She hung up the phone.

The other three women were shaking their heads. "That's the sort of thing you can spend weeks locating," Ruby shared.

Weaver waved his hand and gestured to his machine, "Ladies?"

Belle looked back at her staff. "What do you say? Do we give Emily a chance?"

Weaver was already holding the chair out for Belle. "Type your question here," he told her.

"All right." She slowly typed out, "What is the total weight of the Earth?"

"Now, hit the 'send' button," he directed.

Belle did and sat back. EMMARAC made some quiet purring sounds and spit out an answer.

"5,842 quintillion tons . . . wow," Belle read. She patted EMMARAC, "Good girl, good girl."

"Great. Now, I'd better get down to Payroll and straighten out what's happened there," Weaver told her.

"Oh, I have a suspicion . . . well, I don't want to get anyone into trouble . . . and she's really a very sweet girl . . . but dumb as a rock." Belle hedged.

"What are you talking about?" he stopped.

"Uhmm . . . Astrid," Belle explained. "She's George's niece. He had her working in this department, but she couldn't even file things alphabetically, much less do any real reference work. We adored her, but she wasn't . . . a good fit. She worked in a couple of other departments before she ended up in Payroll. I think her job was to stuff envelopes with people's paychecks but with your machine there, she might have been doing something else."

"Astrid?" he repeated the name.

"Well, I don't know that she's responsible. It's just that . . . well, she's a bit of a walking disaster – things just happen around her."

"What's the last name?" he asked.

Emma supplied the name, "Astrid Grimaldi. If she had anything to do with your Payroll EMMARAC . . . well . . . " Emma shook her head.

"All right then. I promise I won't reveal the perpetrator, if it's her. I'll just try to figure out what she did and fix it," he promised. And unexpectedly, he leaned in and gave Belle a quick kiss. He stopped, pulled back and smiled. He then leaned in and gave her another longer kiss. "I'll be back," he whispered a promise and stepped out of the department.

"Ooooo," said the other three women in unison.

"So, you and Mr. Weaver," Regina said. "I'd been wondering what kind of girl he'd like."

"Brainy, apparently," Emma observed. "Hey, this is why you refused Gary – when he finally got around to asking, isn't it?"

Belle knew she was blushing. "I would have refused Gary whether Mr. Weaver had been around or not." Then she added, "But knowing Mr. Weaver certainly made things a lot easier for me."

"Well, he does look good in those jeans," Ruby admitted.

"Ladies, we still have jobs to do," Belle reminded them. She suddenly realized, "I need to go and unpack my things."

The women dispersed, each of them unpacking what they had packed up earlier. Henry came around about three o'clock with official notices that they had not been fired.

"I've got a stack of these to distribute," he told them. "Mr. Weaver got things straightened out and had them print these up."

Before the day was over, both Ruby and Regina got to have a trial on Emmy, going after factual material that would have otherwise taken them hours to locate. They promised Emma that she could have the next one. Belle came out of her office at 4:30 and suggested that they leave work early since the day had been so stressful.

"We're heading over to the Rabbit Hole," Ruby told her. "We're going to celebrate having a job. Come join us."

"I will," Belle said, "I've got a few more things to finish cleaning up here and I'll be along."

It was just after five when Belle looked up and saw Gary.

"Belle, we need to talk," he came into her office and sat down.

Belle didn't say anything, waiting on Gary to begin.

"Listen, I've been thinking things over," he began.

Belle waited.

"I think I made some assumptions that I shouldn't have. You deserve a proper proposal, a big wedding, and a honeymoon. I just assumed you'd be happy flying off with me to have a quickie ceremony, and well, that was just wrong."

"Is that why you think I turned you down?" Belle asked him.

"Well, yeah. What else would it be? I get it. You're a girl and girls want the proposal deal and the big ceremony."

"That's not why I turned you down," she interrupted.

"Then . . . why?" Gary had no idea, really no idea.

"I realized that I'm not in love with you and you certainly aren't in love with me. I'm a convenience, Gary."

"Oh no, that's not it, that's not it at all. Belle. I mean, you do help some when I have to do those big reports and I appreciate that. And I think you're just the nicest person and in my new position, I will really need a wife who can be that perfect, perfectly nice hostess."

Belle blinked. "You'd expect me to quit my job?"

"Well, of course," he told her, obviously surprised at her question. "I'll be making big bucks. You wouldn't have to work anymore. I'd be there to take care of you."

"Would it surprise you to find out that I'd like to keep working?"

Gary now seemed confused. "But why would you? I mean, how would that look?"

Belle shook her head sadly, "Gary, I'm so sorry, but it's not going to work between us."

"It's that Weaver guy, isn't it?"

"Gary," Belle began.

"Oh, I've seen him, how he hangs around here all the time. You like him, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Belle admitted. "But he's not the reason why I'm turning you down. I'm turning you down because you don't love me, and, more importantly, you don't respect me."

"What does respect have to do with anything?"

Belle just nodded, "I think you've just answered your own question, Gary." She sighed, "You're going to need to find someone else to do your homework for you."

Gary just gaped at her for a moment . . . and then he turned on her, "You frigid bitch! Good luck in you finding a man. I was your best hope." He stomped out of her office.

 _Seething, Gary made his way toward the service elevator to go back up to his office. It didn't take him long before he was congratulating himself – he'd dodged a bullet with Belle – he had thought she'd just been playing hard to get and had decided to give her one last chance to be Mrs. Gary Gaston. After all, he'd figured what girl wouldn't leap at the chance to be Mrs. Gary Gaston. But, clearly, Belle didn't know a great thing when she saw it._

 _Fortunately, he'd already begun a relationship with the delightful Miss Greene, who'd shown herself quite the beauty once she'd shucked off the tweed and let down her hair. She'd proven to be . . . well, rather accommodating. After their lunch and interview, Miss Greene had stopped the elevator between floors to show him just how appreciative she was. He'd offered her a job on the spot and she'd accepted it, quite willing to accompany him to the west coast. He certainly had something to look forward to now. Miss Greene wasn't wife material for sure, more like a real executive secretary type, complete with a little afternoon delight. Yes, he would have to figure out how to do those financial reports himself – but how hard could they be?_

He nearly ran over Weaver who was coming out of the elevator.

Gary stopped and glared at Weaver. "See if you can satisfy her."

Weaver watched Gary step into the elevator and then the door closed. "Wasn't a problem," he said under his breath. He went on into the Reference Department. He saw Belle who was standing still, much of her color drained.

"Are you all right?" he asked, surmising that he had walked in right after an emotional confrontation.

"Yes," she said, shaking herself. "Yes, I'm quite all right. Better than I've been in a long time."

"So, no more . . . confusion?"

She smiled at him. "No, no more confusion."

He gave her a slow smile, "Well, that's good to hear. Where is everyone?"

"Waiting for me at the Rabbit Hole. I was about to go over," she answered. "How about you? Everything's been resolved?"

"Not quite," he admitted. "I did take care of the pink slip fiasco. It was what I suspected - a default had been changed in the program. I had to write another level of protection so this won't happen again. I've been busy programming it into the payroll machine all afternoon – Astrid-proofing it, I hope. But I think, yeah, I think the Payroll Department problem's been resolved."

"But there's something else?"

"Yes." He walked over and stood next to EMMARAC. "I need some advice and I think you are just the person to help me out." He didn't look at her.

"Is that right?"

"Uh huh. You see, I've met this remarkable person. I think we could have a future together." He glanced over at her.

"So, what's the problem?"

"She's very independent, funny, drop-dead gorgeous. I've actually considered proposing marriage – I mean, I'd like to do the whole proposal, picking out china, big white dress, honeymoon, maybe babies – I like the idea of babies with this woman, but she's likely to tell me it's too soon to make a decision this important – we don't know each other well enough – that sort of thing."

"Really?" Belle replied neutrally.

Weaver continued, "Then also, I've been seriously considering offering her a job with a substantial pay increase – she's got a lot to offer my organization."

"Why don't you ask Emily what to do?" Belle suggested.

"She can't answer judgement questions, just factual information and yes/no questions,"

"Why don't you try," Belle urged him.

He shook his head. "I don't think . . ." but, eyeing her, he nevertheless sat down and typed out, "Should Weaver ask Belle French to marry him?"

The machine purred and a tape printed out.

"Not yet, take some time to get to know her better," Belle read the tape.

"That came out of my machine?" he asked suspiciously, and Belle handed him the tape to read for himself.

"Well then," he began typing again, "Should Weaver offer Belle French a job?"

"Definitely," Belle read out.

Weaver sat back scrutinizing the woman in front of him. His eyes narrowed. "You've been messing with my machine," he accused her.

"Me? Oh, I don't begin to have the understanding . . ."

"Don't play dumb with me, Miss French. I happen to know that you are absolutely brilliant, and I suspect you finagled Miss Greene into giving you a couple of programming lessons. You put that information in there," he accused her.

"Moi?"

He sat back and then slowly smiled at her. "I am going to take Emily's advice and offer you a job, Miss French. It has come to my attention that I don't always deal well with people. I'm much better with machines. So, I would want you to work for me . . . with me, as a member of my staff. You should know, there would be a lot of travel involved. I'm heading off to Paris after I finish up here and then it will either be Seoul, Korea, or Sidney, Australia, or both of those places. I'd pay you better, probably twice what you're getting here, and, of course, the company would pay your travel expenses. The down side is that you would be working for me . . . with me."

It was Belle's turn to walk over to EMMARAC. "You are offering me a job," she confirmed.

"Effective immediately . . . or I could wait two weeks or whatever time you wanted, but yes, absolutely, I'd love to have you on my team."

"I could be interested," she told him slowly. "But I would want to give the company two week's notice."

"Perfectly reasonable. But, Miss French, full disclosure here, you should know that I have all these deep feelings for you – I've never met anyone like you – you're a terrific combination of brains, beauty, and kindness and . . . I think . . . what I'm feeling . . . it's happened fast, but I'm in love with you."

"Humm. So, if we gave this relationship a chance and later, perhaps we did get married, would you . . . would you then expect me to stay home and play hostess for you?" she asked him.

He laughed, "Miss French, you are a remarkable woman, a smart woman. You trained long and hard for your job. You have a lot to offer. As far as I'm concerned - If you wanted to keep working . . . if you didn't want to work . . if you wanted to stay home with our babies . . . if you wanted to run your own freakin' company . . . or some combination of what all I've just said . . . whatever . . . I would want you to do whatever makes you happy. I respect your ability to make important decisions that would affect you . . . and me . . . and, well, if we had babies, them too."

"Oh, Mr. Weaver, I don't know." She looked at him, "You've got to know . . . I think . . . and it has been fast, I've fallen in love with you, too," Weaver closed his eyes briefly, and smiled, happy to hear this. "but I don't know that it could ever work between us," Belle told him shaking her head.

"You don't think so?" He looked disappointed, hurt reflecting in his soft brown eyes.

"No, I don't."

"But . . . but, why not?"

"Because you're not really in love with me," she said.

"What?! Why would you say that? I'm definitely feeling love here," he admitted, standing up and coming over to her. "I want to spend time with you. I want to give you anything, everything you want. How can you say I'm not in love with you?"

"No, no. You're not in love with me. You're in love with _her_." Belle pointed at the computer. " _She_ is always going to come first. If anything went wrong with her, you'd forget about me just like that." And she snapped her fingers.

"That is not true," he protested. "I couldn't care less about EMMARAC. It could blow up right now and . . . and it wouldn't bother me a bit."

"Is that so? Let me see." And Belle reached over and, before Weaver could intervene, she turned the forbidden red key.

The machine began to groan and paper tape started to spew out.

"See," Weaver told her, twitching slightly. "It doesn't mean a thing to me." He was clearly making an effort not to look back at his machine, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "See, nothing. I'm still focused . . . just focused on you."

He bit his lip and continued, wincing when the machine made a coughing sound, "You're the only thing I care about. And . . . I do want you to do whatever you want to." He glanced back at the sputtering machine.

Weaver gulped in some air. "If . . . if you want to keep working here . . . or travel . . . or work with me . . . or travel with me . . . or even marry me I . . . I." He wasn't making the most sense. He looked back again at his machine, now making a grinding sound. The man was clearly in distress.

"Whatever you like . . ." He couldn't stand it. He apologized, holding his hands up in surrender, "Honestly, this'll take just a second for me to fix." And he turned his attentions back to his electronic brain.

"I'll wait," Belle promised him.

She watched the man, intense, with an all-consuming focus, as he leaned into his machine.

She realized that he could very well be a difficult man to love, but love him, oh, she thought she could do that. She would certainly have to share his attentions with his amazing electronic brains . . . but knowing how wonderful his attentions were, she thought she could manage this. Yes, she thought, she could manage quite well.

Yes, she would wait for him.

 **A.N. I had wanted to update this story, but so many of the underlying themes did not translate across the decades. The acceptance and enforcement of gender stereotypes, complete with double standards and pay discrepancies, was fully on display in this movie, and much of the plot pivoted around these stereotypes and standards – so I reluctantly decided to keep it in the early 60's knowing that some of this world would be alien to younger readers. Subtle touches (well, I thought they were subtle) were also present as typified by Gaston, who always referred to Belle and her staff as "girls." Contrast to Weaver who was careful to refer to them as "ladies" or "women."**

 **I'll be on another hiatus for a bit. I don't have anything quite ready to leave the nest and I'm truly struggling with whether I want to Nanowrimo for the third year in a row – it's a big chunk of commitment, but I've got a Rumbelle romance in mind (she's Queen of Avonleigh and she's trying to make plans to fend off the ogre attack her generals tell her is coming and a deluge of desperate refugees coming out the Frontlands. She finds herself drawn to one of the refugees, a simple spinner who is searching for his son.) thx all, twyla**


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